


Blood Bleeds Red

by SunandShadowBoth



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender, Zero at the Bone Series - Jane Seville
Genre: Aged up characters, Assassin Keith (Voltron), BAMF Pidge | Katie Holt, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Dr. Lance McClain, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gay Keith (Voltron), Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt Lance (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Lance is a sarcastic little shit, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pansexual Shiro (Voltron), Probably a lot of medical inaccuracies, Sick Keith (Voltron), Slow Burn, broganes, hurt pidge, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-04-17 17:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14194380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunandShadowBoth/pseuds/SunandShadowBoth
Summary: Lance, the unfortunate soul, witnesses a high profile crime. He'll testify of course, because that's the kind of guy he is. For his safety, he's placed under WITSEC's protection.Only problem is, he's not safe there.He knows it, the mafia knows it... and best of all, so does Red, the mysterious hit man Lance finds in his government issue living room.Lance just wants to make it to the trial without dying or going to jail for killing the stranger who seems to get Lance into more dangerous situations than he saves him from.And Red?Well, he just wants to feel human again.





	1. Before

Red pulls up to the parked black car. Nothing about it would identify it as significant to anyone else, but he knows this car, knows every inch of its sleek curvaceous surface. He’s parked his motorcycle behind it too many times not to.  

The man leaning on the trunk is less familiar. Red has the details of his face memorized, sure, easily recognizes the long lines of his expensive suit coat and the shiny shoes that look entirely out of place in the desert sand. Problem is, that’s pretty much all he knows about this guy. That, plus he’s got tastes about even with his means and responds when Red texts his number. While it should be disconcerting to be so in the dark, he doesn’t mind. In fact, he prefers it that way.

“Red,” Lotor greets him from his perch as the newly arrived yanks off his helmet and sets it between the handlebars. His hair is probably a mess compared to Lotor’s carefully styled mane but he doesn’t particularly care.

“Lotor. What jobs you got?” he cuts to the chase, unwilling to engage in any kind of small talk.

“Before you tell me no, just look at them,” the taller man leans behind him to snatch up a small stack of file folders, extending the top one toward Red.

“Who are they?” he says. He’s not going to waste time reading through the gathered intel if he’s not even going to take the job.

“Just a few mob hits, a couple witnesses-”

Red almost flings the folders back into Lotor’s face, “I don’t do that shit.”

“Come on, Red, just take one. If you don’t do them, someone else will.”

“And that’s my problem how?” he’s had a long day. Too long to deal with Lotor’s cajoling.

“Just look at them.”

He complies with a tired sigh, wanting to get this over with. He doesn’t need the cash that a job will bring, but he does need the distraction. A distraction from the dead ends, the emptiness of his hotel room, the fact that he’s living in a hotel room at all.

He flips open the first file and after a minute of scanning the cover sheet, he levels Lotor with a look that is anything but pleasant, “Lance McClain? No way in hell.”

“Why not?” Lotor asks, his face an unreadable mask, “Someone’s gotta do it.”

“No.”

“Red-”

“I said no. Got anything in there that doesn’t involve innocent bystanders?”

“Innocent is a relative word,” Lotor stretches, reaching for another stack of folders he’d been hiding behind his body, “Thought it wouldn’t hurt to try. See if you’d fallen off your damn high horse yet.”

“Not yet,” Red growls, holding his gloved hand out for the three envelopes Lotor hands him. Upon examination, they’re a little bit more palatable. He keeps the low-level Galra henchman. The guy'd fucked up: one of his murders had been discovered and the police taking him alive would result in some difficulties for the organization. This, he could do.

“Which one you take?” Lotor shuffles the returned folders in with the rest, setting them nonchalantly on his lap. Red knows he’s not the only contact Lotor has. He knows this and does his damnedest not to think about it.

If he thinks about it, he’ll have to admit that the rest of the people in those files, the ones who hadn’t done anything except be in the wrong place at the wrong time, people like Lance McClain, are going to die anyway. They’re going to be killed, and maybe not as humanely as he-

Can’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

“Red?”

He startles back to awareness, blinking at Lotor until he remembers the question. He glances down at the little red tab on the top of the envelope, “Uh, Haxus.”

“Good. Let me know when it’s done and the funds will be wired to you, as usual.”

Red nods and slips his helmet back over his face, the dark visor turning the world a bleak gray. Lotor stands and brushes non-existent dust off his dress pants, more of a signal than his words that the meeting is over. Red turns the key in the ignition, revs the engine and speeds off into the shadows of the night.

* * *

 

Three hours later and he’s on the floor in Haxus’ apartment. The entire place is doused in the kind of inky blackness that Red thrives in, the kind that keeps footsteps silent and knives invisible. He’s not sure when Haxus is going to return, but it doesn’t really matter to him. He can keep this position all night if he has to, crouched against the wall behind the massive armchair in the living room.

It doesn’t take quite that long. Maybe an hour later, maybe two, there’s the sound of keys jingling in the front door. The entrance creaks open and some of the light from the hallway seeps onto the carpet, leaving a golden stain that engulfs the entire area when Haxus flips on the light.

Red’s eyes adjust. Haxus throws his keys into a bowl by the door. There’s some shuffling, probably the removal of shoes, and then the heavy footfalls of the man making his way into the living room. If he doesn’t sit in the chair, Red can do this just as easily while he sleeps. He doesn’t have a preference. He’d like to just get this over with. Maybe have a beer at the local pub after.

He supposes it depends on just how bloody Haxus decides to make this.

The Galra sighs, long and low. Red can’t see him, but he can hear his toes slapping against the wooden floor until they stop and there’s a loud thump and a creak as Haxus plops into his chair. He allows one heartbeat, then two, before he’s straightening with a fluid grace he prides himself on. There’s a split second of time in which he gauges the distance his hands are going to have to travel before he’s gripping Haxus’ thick black hair and running his dagger across the skin of his throat.

Red follows through on the slash, his knuckles brushing against the leather of the chair as he avoids as much of the crimson spray as he can. There are a few droplets on his cuff, and the side of his wrist, but the chair and Haxus’ lap manage to catch the majority of it. Haxus gurgles and tilts his head, almost like he’s trying to see Red’s face, his thin fingers moving toward his neck as if to try to keep his blood circulating inside of his body. Instead, it’s running down his shirt, creating a morbid trail of lakes down the folds in the fabric.

Haxus makes a few more gruesome noises and then his hands fall limply into his lap and the man slumps sideways. Red side steps to avoid the growing puddle of blood collecting in the grooves of the floor, making his way to the sink with no sense of urgency. Haxus is dead. He’s fulfilled his contract, will get paid and that will be the end of it.

He rinses his knife, careful to make sure there are no fingerprints on any inch of the stainless steel knobs. When he’s done in the kitchen, he moves to the door, wiping the handle of his presence before he shuts it behind him. Someone’s leaving their apartment just down the hall, and he smiles at them as if he belongs, as if he’s supposed to be here, like there’s no reason for alarm. He’d removed several of the lightbulbs in the long corridor, ensuring any possible witnesses would have only a chancy look at his face even if they did happen to pass by him.

Luckily, this person moves toward the elevator. Red opts for the stairs. Quicker, quieter, and usually a back exit that’s rarely used. It’s perfect for his needs, and he slams the fire door open with a bit more force than he intends, suddenly desperate for some fresh air.

He walks toward the end of the block and his hotel, almost passing over the bar before he thinks that maybe the blood on his sleeve isn’t noticeable. Maybe it’s not as glaringly obvious as he thinks. He wipes at the spots, then rolls up the cuffs until the splotches of scarlet are hidden by layers of cotton. Red stares for a moment at the tacky neon sign inside the bar window before stepping over the threshold and ordering a whiskey on the rocks.

 


	2. Before

Lance really should know better. Cookies and attention from the hot nurse in the ER? It’s much too great a day to last.  _ Something’s bound to go wrong,  _ he thinks as he strolls through the parking structure, trying to remember where he’d parked his vehicle today.  __

As if that last thought alone conjures bad mojo, two men materialize in the distance of the parking garage. Lance doesn’t think anything of it at first. He’s leaving a bit later than usual, as a result of said attractive nurse and his plate of ginger snap cookies. Plaxum, his closest friend at the hospital, has been trying to hook the two of them up for weeks, ever since Lance had displayed more than a mild interest in the man. Hah. As if that would ever go anywhere. Plaxum hadn’t been around long enough to know that he was perpetually and unwillingly single. Forever alone. She’d figure it out eventually. 

Lance’s attention is drawn back toward the two men when he hears a muffled scream. He barely catches a glimpse of a woman with dark hair and a pale frightened face before the larger of the two men blocks his field of vision. His brain goes from sluggish to spastic,  _ peligro  _ screaming through every nerve ending in his body. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he knows he doesn’t want to be seen. 

He slides down the side of a concrete parking divide with a panicked gasp for air. His palms are covered with sweat and he clamps them across his mouth, praying no one hears him.  _ Dios, por favor, si te existe no quiero morir. _

Its quiet for a moment, just the soft sounds of the woman’s whimpers echoing through the garage. The man growls something Lance can’t quite understand, just a bit too far out of earshot to interpret more than the threatening tone. He should probably do something, but  _ what  _ exactly, could he do? If he’s honest with himself, the answer is a whopping load of big fat nothing. Nothing but sit, frozen, watching over the top of the concrete as one of the men turns away from the woman and toward Lance, pulling a switchblade from his pocket. 

His heart rockets into his throat and he grips the handles of his work bag so tightly they cut into the flesh of his fingers. The man moves toward the woman and there’s a pained cry, buried under the wads of fabric the second thug has pressed against her mouth. The guy’s elbow draws back and jabs forward again, followed by the same wail. He hears it three more times before the men finally let the woman fall to the pavement. One of them uses the cloth to wipe the side of the van, where a streak of red dribbles down toward the pavement. It only takes him a second or two to bring it to his level of satisfaction, but for Lance it seems like an hour, watching the mesmerizing white fabric turn scarlet with blood. 

The men get into their vehicle. Lance can see the driver’s face in the side mirror as he yells something to the other guy and then they’re pulling out of the spot, leaving the woman sprawled haphazardly on the ground. They pass him, but they’re both too concerned about getting out of the parking garage as quickly as possible to notice that Lance is crouched almost entirely out in the open, unmoving and horrified. 

He’s seen some shit as a doctor. He had to do his stint in the ER same as everyone else and being a general surgeon resident meant that you see some pretty fucked up injuries sometimes. But this? This is on a whole different level. 

He sucks in one slow breath, then another, waiting until he’s sure he can no longer hear the vehicle before he steps out of his hiding place. Before he thinks about standing, he calls 911, alerting the police to the murder. 

He can hear the woman now that the space isn’t being flooded with the chug of an engine past its prime. She’s making a low groaning keen that he’s intimately familiar with and it makes him want to tear his hair out for how useless he knows he’s about to be. Instead, he takes long steady steps until he reaches her side and then everything slides into that sense of urgency, that adrenaline induced disconnection that keeps him going during twelve hours shifts. That floating weightlessness that allows him to work and do what he can before he knows he has to let go. 

He takes off his jacket and presses it against the cluster of five thin slivers of broken flesh. He can’t see them under her shirt, but he knows they’re there. Knows that there’s too much crimson on the ground and that the puncture wounds have hit her lungs, her kidney and possibly her liver. She’s already choking on the blood, foamy pink bubbling up behind her lips to fall across her formerly perfect makeup. Her mascara is smudged across her cheeks, black smears left behind by her tears. He wants to do more, wishes he could do more,  _ por qué es el mundo un lugar pues terrible?  _

Lance holds her hand as she gives one last gurgling sigh and dies in his arms. 

 

“Dr. McClain, listen, we just have a few more questions,” the officer says, as if he’s reprimanding a disrespectful schoolboy instead of a traumatized twenty-seven-year-old who just wants to sleep. 

“When can I go home?” he sighs, lifting his head off the table from where it’d thunked down of its own accord after Officer Friendly here asked him what color shirt the assailants were wearing for the third time. 

“We told you, we have a few more-”

“Yeah, fine, whatever, ask your questions.”

He doesn’t  _ mean  _ to be uncooperative. Really. He doesn’t. But it’s been the longest day of his life and he knows that things aren’t going to back to normal, no matter how much he wishes they would. He witnessed a murder. A murder carried out by two high ranking Galra members, no less. 

The officers want him to testify. He’s willing to, of course, because he doesn’t want these creeps to get away with any more stunts like that one, but he really, really just needs a nap. And some time to process. Alone. 

But the officer doesn’t seem to pick up on that, so instead Lance is stuck in the police station for another two hours, nursing his cold coffee and cursing his stupid brain for being so unabashedly attracted to the ER nurse that he hadn’t been able to resist staying late. If he hadn’t stayed late, he wouldn’t have seen Staci Ulaz murdered for some reason that was entirely unknown to Lance. 

If he hadn’t stayed late, the task force assigned to apprehend the Galra wouldn’t have their best chance at putting Antonio Prorok and Winston Sendak away for a very, very long time. And he supposes that’s worth a little bit of emotional pain on his part. 

But man, it’s hard not to wish he’d been anywhere else today. 

The officers finally finish up for the night and Lance is given an hour to pack everything he can’t live without into a small suitcase. He can’t stay in his apartment anymore. He can’t stay at his job, hell, he can’t stay in this town. The Galra would be all over him like swiss cheese on his favorite sandwich and as much as Lance hates the idea of moving, he hates the idea of being dead by morning more. 

So within an hour, he has new identification in hand and a witness protection handler. He can’t remember the woman’s name, Agent Atlanta or Artic or… Altea? She’s pretty and way out of his league. Normally he’d be down for a healthy dose of flirting but she’s the only thing between him and death at the moment and he doesn’t have the heart for it. 

He’s on a plane in three hours, landing in nine. He doesn’t even know where he is until Agent Altea pats him amicably on the shoulder and says, “Welcome to your new home Dr. McClain. I trust you’ll find Las Vegas more than safe for the time being.”

He believes her, trusts her even, though he’s only just met her. 

Later, when he’s in his new townhouse with the barrel of a gun pressed to his forehead, he’ll find that incredibly hilarious, somehow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peligro- danger  
> Dios, por favor, si te existe no quiero morir- God, please, if you exist I don't want to die.   
> por qué es el mundo un lugar pues terrible? - Why is the world such a terrible place?
> 
> While I do speak some Spanish, I am far from fluent, so feel free to tell me if I need to fix something!  
> Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Before

He’s gone by seven am the next day. He’d seen the police cars racing toward the apartment complex around one in the morning, long after he’d finished nursing his whiskey and locked the hotel room door behind him. He sleeps for maybe four hours. For him, that’s a luxury, an extended vacation in dreamland that he’s no longer sure he really needs but appreciates all the same. When he wakes, he scrubs every inch of the place clean of evidence, giving it one last check before swinging his leg over the side of his cycle. He’s got no idea where he’s going, but it doesn’t really matter much. He’ll text Lotor this afternoon and let him know the jobs done. Until then, it’s just him and the wind on his face. 

He pulls over a little after noon. He’s got a small bag bungee corded to the back of his bike that’s got a bit of beef jerky and a warm water bottle. His phone vibrates when he’s mid-sip and he nearly chokes on it in his effort to answer the call. 

“Hello?” It’s Lotor’s number, but they don’t call each other. Not if everything’s going well. 

“Is this Red?”

“Who’s asking?”

There’s silence for a second and then the female voice continues, “If you want to see Lotor alive again, come to the parking lot.”

The phone clicks and he’s greeted with silence. 

He doesn’t think for a solid sixty seconds. Not a single thought passes through his mind. He’s just blank, empty, nothing. 

And then he’s is on overdrive. Does he go back for Lotor? He doesn’t even necessarily like the guy. He doesn’t… dislike him, necessarily, but they’re not friends. If he doesn’t though, he’d lose his contact and a bit of the reputation he’d taken years to build. 

That alone is reason enough to turn the motorcycle around and head toward his and Lotor’s last meeting spot. He has no doubt that this is the parking lot they’re referring to. There’s no other parking lot it could be. 

Why would someone target Lotor? And how had they known they were connected? Obviously, they’d gotten Lotor’s phone, but why had they called Red in particular? 

He can think of a number of reasons, too many reasons. Most of them narrow to the fact that he’s competition. Wouldn’t be the first time that a fellow hitman had tried to take him out to get a chance at a high paying target. But why would they take Lotor? They have to know who Red is. And if they do, they know he wouldn’t endanger his own life for his handler. No, they’ve got something else on him, and Red intends to know exactly what that something is  _ before _ it’s used against him rather than after. Lotor is just the bait. 

It’s not long enough of a ride before he’s pulling into the deserted dust lot on the side of an empty interstate highway. There’s a shitty information shack at the corner of it, but no one’s ever manning it and the door’s been permanently bolted shut. It looks different in the daylight. Less menacing. 

He parks his bike and shoves the key into his leather jacket. Lotor’s car is parked at the other end, by the dilapidated building, but the tall polished man isn’t the one who steps out of the driver's seat. It’s a woman with blue-black hair and full lips. She’s got sunglasses perched on her small nose and a packet of papers clutched in her hand as she unfolds from the front of the vehicle. On the passenger's side, a taller woman slams the door with more force than is probably necessary, her dark eyes glaring in Red’s general direction as he walks across the orange dirt of the parking lot. 

“Red?” the smaller woman asks, her voice surprisingly even and mellow, “We’ve got Lotor.”

“And I should care why?” He says in response, his hands still in his pockets. He’s got a small knife in his fist. What good it’ll do, he’s not sure, but it’s there nonetheless. 

“Oh don’t play coy,” the woman sighs, “Zethrid, show the man that Lotor’s still alive.”

Zethrid, the hulk of a woman, opens the passenger side door to reveal Lotor’s limp form, his arms tied behind his back and a large bloody gash on his forehead. He looks more disgruntled than anything, groaning when Zethrid hauls him to an upright position. 

“Red, I truly apologize-” he begins, and his words cut off as the massive woman backhands him. 

“It’s not a problem Lotor,” Red lies. It most definitely is a problem.

“We’ll let your handler go,” the smaller kidnapper smiles, showing perfect teeth, “If you do one little favor for us.”

“Do what you want with Lotor,” Red’s grip tightens on the knife handle, unsure if he actually means what he says, “Why should I do anything you want me to?”

“If you don’t, these pictures stay in my possession. Or well, more accurately, the government’s,” the woman tosses a folder at his feet. Several of the images spill over his shoes, pictures of his face clearly illuminated by streetlights as he cleans blood off a knife, pictures of him leaving the scene of his last job, of several jobs. He flips through them slowly, his stomach dropping to somewhere between his toes. His heart jams so far up his throat it’s a struggle to take a clean breath. This is bad, real bad. Someone has been following him, documenting every one of his kills for the last six months. How? He’s always so careful.

And then there, the last picture in the file is an image of Shiro. His hair is different now and he’s got a scar across the bridge of his nose, but it’s him. He’s in a room, tied to a chair, head tilted backward at an awkward angle. He’s unconscious. The image is taken from the back, so all Keith can clearly see is his face, part of his arms and bare feet. He’s tied to a generic metal chair. Nothing about the snap gives Red any idea of where they might be keeping him.

He’s alive. Red isn’t sure how he knows, but Shiro is alive in this picture. There’s a newspaper headline in the corner of the page, dated three days ago, but these things can be photoshopped. Even if it hadn’t been, a lot can happen in three days. He should know. 

“That last one caught your attention?” the woman’s still smiling and Red wants to bury his knife in her throat, “There’s more where that came from. Do a job for us. We’ll make sure you get the rest and avoid the FBI most wanted list. It’s a two for one deal.”

“Why?” he croaks. He can’t think. He hasn’t had a new lead in… a year and a half now?

“Because we really need this guy dead,” Zethrid speaks for the first time, her voice a low growl, “And you’re the best.”

“I’m flattered,” he grunts, the words sounding hollow and weak. He’s not flattered. He knows it, they know it, he knows they know. It’s a game, that’s what this is. He’s been trying to avoid the games played within the hitman circuit for so long he supposes it’s about time he finally gets caught up in one. 

“Good,” the unnamed woman tosses him another folder, “Kill Lance McClain by the end of the week, or you go to jail and poor little Takashi Shirogane never gets found.”

“You know where he is?” Red snarls, surfacing from the fog of his mind. He takes a step forward, and Zethrid moves as if to stop him. 

“Does it matter?” she rumbles. 

He supposes it doesn’t. Even if they did, they wouldn’t tell him. He can try to overcome them now, but they’d probably just kill him outright. If he plays their little game, he gets what he wants  _ and _ he stays alive. 

When he doesn’t answer, the woman tosses another folder at his feet, “Glad we could come to an understanding. One week.”

They move together as if to get back into the vehicle, and Red finds himself blurting, “What about Lotor?”

They pause, glancing into the backseat and then at one another, “He comes with us. Text him when the job is finished and we’ll see about releasing him.”

For some reason, a bit of relief threads through him. They won’t kill him, too afraid that Red will go back on the deal if Lotor is killed. He won’t, but they don’t need to know that. They clearly think he and Lotor are much closer than is the reality. Red doesn’t have friends, let alone find one in a man that acts as his liaison for contracted killing. 

But, he supposes, they are right in some aspects. Lotor is the closest thing to an acquaintance he has, unless he’s counting Green. And most days, he doesn’t.  

They eye him for a second, and when he doesn’t respond, they slide seamlessly into the front seats, their doors slamming almost at the same moment. He wonders if they practice that on their day off. Maybe it’s part of henchmen training. 

Because these two  _ are  _ henchmen. That much is for sure. Someone bigger and badder is controlling them and he isn’t exactly sure he wants to find out who. 

Or, he wouldn’t, if it wasn’t for that damn picture of Shiro. 

With a soft sigh of resignation, he scoops up Lance McClain’s file. The name sounds familiar. He realizes with a start that it’s the same person Lotor tried to get him to off the day before. Alarm bells ding in the back of his mind, but he dismisses them. He knows Lotor. Kind of. In a strange way. Regardless of the truth in that statement, Red has been working with him for the past four years. If Lotor had been planning to cross him, there would have been plenty of other opportunities before now. 

He flips open the front cover and groans, out loud in the middle of an empty parking lot in a part of the desert God forgot. McClain's  a witness. A witness, and a fucking doctor. An upstanding citizen. Doesn’t have any kind of record, no indication that he’s the usual kind of asshole Red targets. He’s got his code for a reason. He does the jobs he can handle and nothing more. 

Are they doing this on purpose? Trying to get him to branch out from his usual hits into the darker side of assassination work? He doesn’t want to go there, doesn’t know if he can go there. 

He burns the pictures right there on the side of the road. Takes his lighter from his pack and sets them ablaze. He does the same to McClain’s file, destroying any and all evidence that he had been here, that he was the one who had taken the job. This job, the one that is so far from his comfort zone that he isn’t really sure he’s going to be able to pull it off.

But as he watches Shiro’s face pucker and burn under the flame, he knows he doesn’t have a choice.


	4. During

He’s bored. He knows he really shouldn’t be bored, because he is, after all, hiding for his life, but that doesn’t change the fact that boredom is oozing from every single one of his pores and he’s wondering if he should just let himself be taken. Let the Galra show up. He can’t take it anymore. 

But then he’ll hear a car drive by and it’ll slow in front of his townhouse and his heart will pound like it’s trying to become a drummer in a professional rock band and he reassures himself that no. No, catching up on television isn’t actually that boring. He can do this. 

He just misses everyone. Not that there are that many people to miss. Plaxum and… well, she’s pretty much it. His mom, younger brother, and extended family still live in Cuba. His older sister lives in Oklahoma with her husband and three kids. His younger sister is in college in New York and while she’d been only an hour from him, they’d only spent one weekend a month together, at most. It’s not like he saw his family that often when he’d been working at the hospital but… now that the option is taken from him, it’s like someone sawed out one of his lungs and he can’t quite get enough oxygen. 

It’s so stupid. It’s not like he really had many friends in New York anyway. He spends time with a few people, sure, but he’s not close with them. Lance wonders when that happened, exactly. He used to be so social. Had he changed or was it just because of his insane schedule?

And he’s had just about enough of this train of thought. He stands abruptly from the couch and turns off the television. He needs to go on a walk. Do  _ something  _ outside. He’s been in this living room for almost three days straight, playing video games on the Nintendo DS system witness protection had provided him with and catching up on all the seasons of Grey's Anatomy he hadn’t been able to watch recently. 

It had been nice, but now he needs to escape for a little while. Escape from the fantasy. Ha. That’s a first. 

He puts on his jacket and steps into the bright Nevada sunlight. It’s a nice day, or it would be, if Lance didn’t have to pull his hat down low over his eyes, if he didn’t have to be wary of every single stranger he passes. Witsec said he was free to wander around the town a little, so long as he stayed out of the way of most security cameras, but he can’t help feeling like he’s in danger every second he’s in the open air. 

Despite how relieved he’d been to leave his apartment, he’s even more pleased to return to its cool darkness an hour later. He made it to a small convenience store and picked up some of his favorite snack cakes-those cosmo brownies with the multi-colored candy pieces decorating the surface. He sets the bag on the kitchen counter and slips his sandals off his feet, whistling quietly to himself to relieve some his anxiety. He’s used to living alone, but not when there’ a literal death threat on his head. Whenever he’d been in trouble before, he always surrounded himself with people. Maybe that’s why he misses everyone so much. They’re his emotional safety net. 

He leans against the kitchen counter for a moment, trying to get himself together, trying to calm down. He’s fine. He can do this. He  _ has  _ to do this.

Lance straightens, looking over the counter absently into the living room. It’s an open floor plan and he begins to let his thoughts wander to the beaches of Varadero before he realizes that one of the chairs in the living room doesn’t look like he remembers it. Specifically because there’s a  _ person  _ sitting in it.

“Holy fuck,” is all he can think to say before the man is standing, a gun pointed casually in his direction. He can’t think straight and he knows he should probably scream or cry or something that demonstrates the panic pulsing beneath his skin but all he says is, “Did you just sit there and watch me have a mental break down?”

The man falters, the barrel of the gun wavering for a heartbeat before it’s once again steady. It happens so quickly Lance is pretty sure he images it, but then again, he’s not dead yet. 

Lance closes his eyes and waits for it to happen. He wonders if it’ll hurt, if he’ll feel anything when the bullet enters his skull. What will his mamá say? She’ll be devastated if they had to have a closed casket. And his sisters? Would they know to ironically play “Angel” by  Sarah Mclachlan ? His whole family is aware he’s going straight to hell. 

When the gun doesn’t fire, he hesitantly lets his eyes open, squinting at the man shroud in all black,

“Listen, I know this is kind of an odd request, but could you… uh, avoid the face?”

The weapon drops for a second and the man stares, “What?”

His voice is a bit deeper and huskier than Lance is expecting from someone with such a lean frame. Not that the man’s small, at least from what he can tell, but he’s got more of the runner’s physique than a bodybuilder's. 

“My mamá is going to want to have an open casket and you kinda can’t do that with a bullet through the skull,” Lance says and then wonders what kind of insanity he’s reached where he can calmly explain this to the man about to murder him. 

The man doesn’t say anything for a long moment, then he scrubs his face with his free hand and gestures to a chair in the living room, “Shut up and sit down.”

Lance doesn’t know where this sense of calm is coming from, but it's spreading from his chest down to his toes and he gently pushes back from the counter. There’s something up with this guy. Something that pegs Lance as being just a bit off. Not in a bad way, but in a way Lance might be able to use. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, because why not?

The man doesn’t answer. His eyes are trained steadily on Lance as he progresses across the kitchen and into the living room. Lance can’t tell what color they are. He wants to know, suddenly. As if that one detail can make this whole situation go away. 

“My name’s Lance McClain, but you probably already know that.”

Tall, dark and handsome doesn’t give an indication either way. He just impatiently motions Lance toward the chair, the gun in his hands glinting with a crack of light that seeps through one of the broken blinds. Lance approaches with his hands raised in a placating gesture, fingers spread in a way that hopefully broadcasts ‘I’m not a threat’. 

As he gets closer, he realizes that the assassin isn’t actually tall. Objectively speaking, sure, but he’s about an inch shorter than Lance’s six-foot frame, His eerily still brain seems to latch on to that piece of information, seems to find it important, but Lance can’t quite figure out why. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he hears himself saying, although he hasn’t made the conscious decision to speak, “You can leave and I’ll never speak of this to anyone.”

“Sit down,” the hitman growls, and Lance complies, practically falling into the overstuffed armchair facing his television. His ass sinks further into the cushion than he would have liked, and he’s left craning his neck to stare up at the man. His killer. 

The assassin moves just slightly to the right and turns his head at the sound of a car traveling passed the townhouse. Lance has the absurd hope that it’s the marshalls or the police, or anyone really who could rescue him from this situation, but the sounds of tires on asphalt fades much too quickly and he’s left with the realization that he’s really and truly fucked. 

This notion is solidified by the barrel of the gun being pressed up against his forehead and he has the strongest urge to squeak “not the face!” except honestly he’s too terrified to move. It’s like all the fear that had been absent up until now suddenly hits him all at once and he knows with a cold certainty that he’s going to die. 

A bird chirps loudly outside the window and the gun is pulled away again. Lance’s gaze is drawn up to the hitman’s face, to the blank emptiness that’s carefully in place there. The assassin’s looking toward the window, and the streak of sunlight illuminates deep blue eyes, so gray and stormy they’re almost purple. He’s got time to wonder if he’s imagining the conflict swirling within them before he’s once again got his head pressed into the back of the chair and the cold feel of metal against his skin. 

Sweat is trickling down his back. His stomach feels like the sea during a hurricane. He’s going to die. This is it. No more patients for him, nor more lab coats, no more gossiping over lunch with Plaxum. No more ice cream dates with his little sister, no more  _ abrazos  _ from his mom, no more playing legos with his niece Valencia.   _ Nunca tendré mi propia familia. Niños.  _ He’s going to die, all because of a hot ER nurse and he wonders if a bit of flirting was really worth all this trouble. 

It takes more time than it should have to pull himself out of his blind downward spiral and realize that once again,  _ he’s not dead.  _ He’s not dead, and the gun against his forehead is quivering. 

He opens his eyes to see that the hitman is staring down at Lance, frozen. His arm shakes and his breath is stuttering and he’s got this  _ lost  _ look on his face, like he just woke up and has no idea where he is or how he got here. 

“You don’t want to do this,” Lance whispers and as the words hit the open air, he recognizes the truth of them. That’s what’s off. That’s what’s so weird about this guy. He doesn’t  _ want  _ to kill Lance. So why is he here? “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes I fucking do,” the man’s voice rumbles from deep in his chest and it seems they’re both surprised to hear it, “You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t, but there’s always a choice.”

“There isn’t a choice!” the man pulls away in an explosion of motion. Lance flinches, but the hitman just begins to pace, his gun clutched loosely in his left fist as he stalks from the kitchen counter and back into the living room.

They’re silent like that for a long time, long enough for Lance’s fingers start to cramp where they’re gripping the end of the arms on the chair. Finally, the hitman stops, stares down at the gun in his hands and then up at Lance, who stares right back. He doesn’t really know why he does, except it feels like the right thing to do. The guy studies’ Lance’s face for one breath, then two, and then he exhales, loud and slow, “Pack your shit.”

“What?” his brain fizzles out. This is not at all what he’d been expecting. He’d been prepared to plead for his life, to try his best to convince this guy that killing him wasn’t the only option. And instead, he gets ‘pack your shit’?

“Pack an overnight bag. You can’t stay here.” The man’s slipping his gun back into its holster at his waist, offering an arm to Lance to help him up off the chair, “We’ve got to get as far as we can before they figure out you’re still alive.”

* * *

 

 

You can find me on tumblr at: <https://becomingshadow.tumblr.com/>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abrazos- hugs  
> Nunca tendré mi propia familia. Niños.- "I'll never have my own family. Children."  
> Let me know what you think! Hope you enjoy :)


	5. During

He sees his target leave. It’s four in the afternoon, so it’s likely he won’t be gone long. Too early for dinner, too late for lunch. Probably just running some errands. Red will be and out within the hour if all goes well.

Of course, it doesn't. He’s just sitting on a chair, staring at the blank television screen when he hears the front door open. He doesn’t move, not yet. Let the target get far enough into the apartment that there’s no chance of escape.

The target takes off his shoes. He’s whistling, which isn’t in itself surprising except that Red knows the song. It used to be one of Shiro’s favorites, a one-hit wonder from an oldies alternative group. Red always said it sounded like a cat being kicked off the roof of a car. Shiro had called it “soulful.”

Red jerks himself back to the present, surprised to find that the target is now leaning against the kitchen counter, his head bowed as he takes slow steadying breaths. He’s still humming to himself absently, clearly upset about something. Doesn’t matter to Red what it is, but he finds himself watching the guy all the same, looking for something, anything that tells him Dr. Lance McClain is an asshole who deserves to die.

His target finally seems to get himself together and straightens, his gaze going distant over the living room until his eyes land upon Red perched in a chair. He freezes for a second, giving Red all the time he needs to stand and aim.

“Holy fuck,” the guy says, and it’s something Red’s heard time and time again, that surprise, fear- “Did you just sit there and watch me have a mental breakdown?”

 _That,_ however, is not something he’s heard. He tries to conceal his shock but he’s sure it probably shows for a second too long.

The target doesn’t seem to expect an answer, just closes his eyes and waits for Red to pull the trigger. Good. Alright, back to safe ground, back to an arena Red is all too familiar with. He can do this. He can.

 _But should you?_ A voice says and it sounds an awful lot like Shiro. He’s had targets that remind him of his brother in one way or another, but never someone who was good like Shiro was. Is. Never someone that probably didn’t do anything to earn their place in the sights of his gun.

 _Just get it over with_ another voice chimes in, this time one that belongs to him and him alone.

He aims, puts his finger on the trigger and-

“Listen, I know this is an odd request but could you uh… avoid the face?”

He almost drops his weapon, “What?”

He really wants to ask why this guy thinks he can request anything at all, why he’s acting like he’s in charge of this situation when he’s so clearly not. He’s doing the same “death has come for me” routine like so many do, but it’s nothing like the others, not at all. He’s talking to Red like a person and he doesn’t really know what to do about that.

“My mamá is going to want to have an open casket and you kinda can’t do that with a bullet through the skull,” the target explains with a little shrug.

Logical. Not possible for Red to fulfill, but logical. If he doesn’t shoot this guy between the eyes quick and easy and get it over with, it’s not going to happen. As much as he finds himself wanting to give the guy his last request, he knows he can’t. He has to kill him. Has to do it now. He scrubs his free hand across the bridge of his nose, grounding himself.

“Shut up and sit down,” he says, putting much more menace than he feels in those five words. He gestures to the chair, and the target glances at him and then the seat before slowly making his way out from behind the counter.

“What’s your name?” the target asks, his voice soft and questioning, like Red is a little kid he just found lost in the mall and crying for his mother. His hands are up and spread apart, probably trying to convince Red that he means no harm. _I come in peace._ Yeah, well, too bad for the target, but Red brings only violence.

“My name’s Lance McClain, but you probably already know that,” the target murmurs. Red doesn’t bother to respond.  

He knows the target is trying to play him, knows that he’s just trying to get under his skin, to get him talking, to stall for time. This is all a game, one big fucking game, and he’s furious that he’s being made to play it. He knows not to fall for it, knows he has to kill this man but all he can see is Shiro crouched in front of him, a hand outstretched, _“Hey man, I’m Takashi Shirogane. What’s your name?”_

The target moves closer and then they’re standing next to each other for the barest of instants. Lance’s breath is on his face and Red has a split second to realize that he’s shorter than his mark just enough to be noticeable.

“You don’t have to do this you know,” Lance breathes, his expression not pleading but almost… determined? “You can leave and I’ll never speak of this to anyone.”

He wants to leave. He really does. But he can’t. If he leaves, someone else will come and kill Lance anyway, and then Red’ll end up on the Galra’s hit list if he isn’t already. Some of them had to have followed him here. They know he’s wary about this job, know that there’s a distinct possibility he won’t carry it out.

But he has to. For Shiro.

“Sit down,” he snaps and Lance complies, his brown hair fluffing up against the back of the leather to look comical. A car drives past and Red waits, holding his breath. It’s likely at this hour to be just a family going out for dinner, but he doesn’t want to take his chances. He has to get this over with. Now.

He jams the gun into Lance’s forehead and he knows its not professional, knows this is not how things are done but he can’t afford for his hand to shake and for him to miss. He doesn’t want this man to suffer. He does, however, want this man to die.

A bird chirps and for some unknown reason, it scares the shit out of him. He backs up a step, glancing toward the noise, entirely too jumpy for this job. He should have waited. Considered how he was going to deal with all these emotions when he encountered them. He knew they were coming but it’d been so long since he’d had to manage them he’s almost at a loss.

He looks down and sees Lance’s sea blue eyes peering into his own as if they hold all the secrets of the world. He has to do it now or he’s not going to be able to.

Red takes a deep breath, presses the gun back where it belongs and puts his finger on the trigger. He has to do it. He has to do it now. If he wants to find Shiro, he has to kill this man in front of him.

 _For Shiro._ He flexes his fingers. _For my parents._

“ _You’re going to be a great man someday Keith,” Shiro says as he ruffles the hair of the twelve-year-old crouched on the cracked and ivy-coated dividing wall, “You just gotta get through this little rough patch first. You’ll be better on the other side, I know you will.”_

If he does this, there’s no coming back. Sure, he’s killed, but they were bad people, people who should have been taken off the streets. Not people like Dr. Lance McClain, who saves the lives of children and is risking his life to testify against the most despicable organization Red’s ever encountered. If he does this, he has to face Shiro and tell him. He has to put that on his brother’s shoulders. He has to imagine telling his parents, Shiro’s parents, Shiro himself, what kind of person he’s become.  

And worse, _he’s_ the one who’s going to have to live with what he’s done.

He doesn’t even notice that he’s been staring down at the gun clenched in both of his hands for a solid minute until Lance says quietly, “You don’t want to do this. You don’t _have_ to do this.”

“Yes, I fucking do,” Red retorts before he can catch himself, “You don’t understand.”

If he doesn’t do this, the Galra will be over them like flies on honey in a matter of hours. Red will become a target, and Lance’s contract will be released to any other hitmen who might want the cash. Why had the Galra wanted Red to complete this job? He’s assuming that’s who the two women were, there’s no other organization that could give them that kind of confidence and power to avoid the police and work without discretion. There are so many others who would take this contract, no questions asked. So why would they target him?

“No, I don’t, but there’s always a choice,” Lance is saying and Red wants to off him for his innocence alone.

“There isn’t a choice!” he growls, and he has to get away, has to get out, because he can’t do it. He

can’t kill Lance. But if he leaves, someone else is just going to do his work for him, and that isn’t something Red can allow. It’s a matter of principle at this point. It bothers him to think that someone else could come into this cozy little home and kill McClain with no thought of the man behind the witness. _Others picking up your slack never bothered you before,_ he tells himself, but that’s not entirely true. It did bother him. A lot. And now he’s finally going to do something about it. This won’t make up for all the shit he’s done in his past, but it can make the future a little easier to deal with. Not to mention it would be the biggest ‘fuck you’ to the Galra that he can come up with at the moment.

So maybe Lance is right. There is a choice. He’s leaving and he’s taking Lance McClain with him.

It’s not a monumental shift. There’s no sudden epiphany. He knew before he came here that he wasn’t going to kill this man, even if it hadn’t been entirely conscious. Now it’s just a matter of surviving the aftermath.

He stops pacing. He hadn’t even realized he’d started. He stares down at his gun and then up at Lance. He’s doing this, but it might be the stupidest thing he’s done in a really, really long time, “Pack your shit.”

“What?” Lance croaks, his eyes wide like a deer in the headlights.

“Pack an overnight bag, you can’t stay here.” Lance’s gaze is still directed on the gun in Red’s grip so he deftly holsters it, reaching out with a hand he fully doesn’t expect Lance to take, “We’ve got to get as far as we can before they figure out you’re still alive.”

“Before who figures out I’m still alive? Wait, you’re not going to kill me?”

“The Galra. They’re the ones who sent me after you,” Lance accepts the assist, yanking himself out of Red’s grip as soon as he’s upright. Red pretends not to notice, “The best way for you to stay alive is if you come with me.”

“‘Come with me if you want to live’?” Lance says, making air quotes with his fingers, “That’s what you’re going with? Really?!”

“Pack a fucking bag!” Red yells, and it’s louder than he intends but he doesn’t care because they

have to _go._     

“What if I don’t want to? You just tried to _kill me._ The Marshalls will just move me again, I should stay here and-”

The Galra probably either bought or stole the information about Lance’s current whereabouts from the Marshalls. He doesn’t tell the taller man that, suspecting that Lance probably can’t handle much more threat to his personal safety in one afternoon, “You really think that moving’s going to help? If I found you once, someone else can find you again. Pack a bag, we’re leaving.”

“The hell we are. I’m not going anywhere with you.” Lance snaps and Red wants to pull his hair out. He’s trying to _save_ this guy, and _now_ he gives him a fucking attitude?

Red pulls his knife from it’s sheath across the small of his back, pushing Lance up against the wall with one hand, holding the blade against Lance’s throat with the other, “I didn’t think this was a negotiation. Last time I checked, I’m the one in control here.”

There’s a stiffening of fear in Lance’s spine, in his blue irises, but he says, “Buddy, if you were going to kill me, you would have done it already.”

Red doesn’t waver, “Mmm, may be true, but I’ve heard that pain is a great motivator. Pack. A. Fucking. Bag.”

God damn, if it’s always this hard to save people, no wonder he hasn’t tried it before.

“We need to call the police-” Lance begins but his words cut off abruptly when Red digs the edge of the blade into Lance’s skin. The man pauses, eyes darting between the cold steel and Red’s face, “Fine. Fuck you. I’ll pack a stupid ass bag.”

“Glad we could come to an agreement,” Red says and then he _smiles._ It’s not a real smile, too dark and twisted for that, but the edge of one of his lips quirks up and he holds Lance’s gaze for a second too long and then he steps back, giving the man room to move. Lance’s eyebrows are raised, but he doesn’t say anything, just storms up the stairs like a toddler being told to clean his room. Jesus, doesn’t Lance understand that he’s going to _die_ if he doesn’t start making some smart decisions?

He hears Lance moving around and wonders if it’s a good idea to let the man pack alone. He could have a gun or a knife stashed up there somewhere, could hide it until Red sleeps. It’s a risk, but at the very least, Lance will be armed when the Galra come for them. Because they will.

While Lance is noisily throwing things together giving sarcastic commentary such as “Do you think I’ll need flip flops where we’re going? Where _are_ we going anyway?” Red gets to work downstairs. He smashes a vase on the floor, throws his shoulder into the wall to make a dent, slashes his knife across the chair. He tries to make it look like the scene of a fight, but when he stands back and surveys his work, even he can admit it's not all that convincing. Eh, there’s nothing for it. He doesn’t have time for anything else.

“Are you destroying all my shit? What the fuck man, that’s just insult to injury.”

Red glances up from where he’d been preparing to throw his elbow into the T.V., “We need it to look like you put up a fight.”

Lance’s already annoyed expression sours, “Rude, man. You’re just rude.”

“When you’re gone, the Marshalls are going to be looking for you. You need an excuse for why you ran off. Just… we don’t have time for me to explain everything right now. I’m almost done here, and then we’re getting in your car, and you’re going to drive us to get some gas.”

“I am? Nice to know,” Lance grumbles and winces as Red grips his left fist with his right hand and jabs his elbow through the T.V. screen. He’s got on a thick leather jacket so it doesn’t hurt much beyond the massive bruise he’s going to get. Honestly, Lance looks like he’s in more pain.

The Galra undoubtedly followed Red here, but he was careful not to be seen entering the home. If he ducks down in the front seat, and Lance drives, they’ll probably think he’s just going out for food or some other errand. Once they’re out of the city, Red can drive. He needs to get them cash, supplies, new id’s, new phones. It shouldn’t be too entirely difficult provided they can stay hidden, and Lance actually does what he says.

Lance manages to open the garage without much fuss, tossing his bags into the trunk. He’s got a duffle bag, a bag of toiletries and another small black briefcase-like bag that Lance informs him is his “doctor bag” in the most obnoxious tone of voice Red has thought he’s ever heard. Maybe… Maybe Shiro would forgive him if he put a bullet or two into this guy. Just one?

Red ducks into the back seat, keeping himself covered by a massive blanket Lance has stashed there. Lance backs out of the garage slowly, glancing both ways before he pulls out onto the street and drives down the main road.

“Anyone following us?” Red asks, his voice muffled under the layers.

“How would I know?” Lance whispers, trying not to move his lips from the sound of it. Red supposes that’s kind of smart.

“Rearview mirror?” He barely manages to keep his sarcasm at bay because for fuck's sake, did he have to spell everything out for this guy?

“No, no one’s following.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure!” Lance growls, threat obvious in his voice. Although, what he thinks he can do to against a professional hitman, Red isn’t really sure.

They stop for gas. Red allows himself to sit up and stretch, his heart in his throat as he realizes Lance is about to swipe a debit card at the pump. He pounds on the window as loudly as he dares and Lance turns just in time to nearly take the door in the face as it’s shoved open.

“You can’t use a card. They can trace it. Use cash.”

“Don’t have any.”

“I do.” He can sense it now. He’s going to be dragging this man’s dead weight across the country until the trial. Lance is going to get him killed. He should just leave the man here. He can walk to his motel from here, get his motorcycle and be on his way.

He sighs and enters the gas station, keeping his head down. He pays for the gas, grabs some water, and heads back outside. Lance is still filling up, so he hops into the drivers side seat, “I’m driving.”

“Whatever man,” Lance barely acknowledges him, just returns the pump to its proper place and slumps into the passenger's seat. Red eases the car back into traffic and Lance stares blankly out the windshield for a long moment.

“So what should I call you? Since we’re apparently stuck on this magic carpet ride together.”

Red doesn’t answer. Lance doesn’t need to know his name. They just have to survive until the trial,

make sure it’s not postponed-  

“I suppose I can just say ‘hey you’ every time I need your attention. Or maybe ‘the hitman’. Or like, ‘dude’ or something. ‘Hi everyone, this is Dude’.”

“Who would you be introducing me to?” Red chances a side glare in Lance’s general direction. The man looks oddly amused for being trapped in a car with his would be killer.

“I dunno. A bar full of people? You do go to bars, don’t you? Seedy ones, I bet-”

“Red. You can call me Red.”


	6. After

“Red?” Lance says staring at him with a measure of disbelief he’s sure is written all over his face, “Red. That’s not really a name.”

“Well it’s my name,” Red answers curtly, one hand curled into his long black hair, the other on the steering wheel. His eyes are covered by a pair of sunglasses, and Lance can see his own disheveled appearance reflected in them when Red turns to glare at him, presumably. 

“God, do I really look like that?” Lance mutters, pulling down the sun visor. The little mirror in it illuminates just how tired and stressed he really looks. As dumb as it is to be concerned about appearance at a time like this, he can’t help but hope he packed one of his skin creams. “It’s just, red is a color. Not a name. I mean, not like Violet, which is both...”

He trails off when he realizes he's in danger of rambling. 

Red doesn’t answer. Lance gives him time to respond, but the pause turns into a stretch of silence and then that turns into an hour of absolutely no talking until Red pulls into an alley behind a gas station. He produces a phone from some hidden pocket Lance failed to notice while the guy had been trying to kill him, and proceeds to pull up google maps. 

“What are you doing?” Lance asks, trying to peer over his shoulder. 

Red ignores him, turning sideways so Lance can’t see the screen. Real mature. 

“Seriously, what are we doing. We’re sitting ducks here.”

“We won’t be here long.”

“Why are we here at all? We should be getting out of town-”

“Do you  _ ever  _ shut up?” Red snaps. Apparently finding what he’d been looking for, he shoves his phone back into the pocket and starts the car, “Seriously, I have never met anyone who talks as much as you.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Lance hears himself saying with a huff and flops back against the seat with his arms crossed. He sounds like a child, but he can’t help it. He’s hurt, more than he should be, and he just doesn't know how to react anymore. What do you say when a man who could probably kill you with his index finger in thirty different ways insults you? ‘I’m sorry sir, please don’t try to murder me again?’

Red roars out of the alley with a little more speed than is probably necessary, and Lance curses as they race over the curb. His sort of kidnapper, sort of savior, doesn’t even flinch, just smiles slightly to himself and takes the next corner with the same reckless speed as before. 

He can see it now. Outright murder is too easy for Red. He’s just going to passive aggressively give Lance a heart attack instead. 

Twenty minutes later, they’re pulling into the back parking lot of a nursing home, the area where residents leave their vehicles. There’s no one around, and no security cameras- it’s not that nice of a place and Lance feels bad for the residents inside without ever having seen a single one of them. 

“Why are we here?” he asks again, refusing to be afraid of this man. If they were going to be stuck together for the foreseeable future, he was going to make damn sure that Red at least treats him like a human being. 

Red snarls something under his breath and Lance freezes, his hand on his seatbelt as he watches the man exit the truck. 

Maybe… maybe being ignored is better. 

There’s a moment of quiet while Lance tries to calm his racing heart and Red does whatever it is hitmen do when they’re pissed off, before Red appears at Lance’s door and opens it for him. He has his hand on the back of his neck and is staring at the ground, his sunglasses hooked on his v-neck shirt. He takes a deep breath, eyes darting in Lance’s direction and then back at the parking lot before he says, “We gotta switch the license plates out. Yours will be flagged.”

“So why are we  _ here _ ?” 

Red’s wandering the lot already, crouching in front of several cars for a moment before shaking his head and moving on, “Because we’re looking for a vehicle that no one drives anymore. We take the plates of one of these cars, and it’s likely that it won’t be noted for a long while - long enough for us to be far away from here.”

That… made sense. Red stops in front of a dusty pick-up, leaves collected in the windshield wipers and in the bed of the truck. He kneels, pulling a small pack from another hidden pocket, and a small screwdriver finds its way into his hand.

“Wait,” Lance says before he can stop himself. He points to a dirty station wagon. “Shouldn’t we use this one?”

“Why?” Red says after a pause, staring up at Lance. He’s squinting in the sunlight, his dark eyebrows knitting together. His hair falls across his nose and when he impatiently brushes it out of the way, Lance realizes he’s waiting for an answer. 

“One of the front tires is flat and the registration is expired. Just swap the sticker out and we’d be golden.” 

Did he just say “we”? When did he start condoning law breaking?

_ When it’s his life on the line? _

Red doesn’t say anything, but he nods. Lance thinks, just for a second, that he sees a bit of approval in his gaze, but then the moment’s gone and Red is brushing past him toward the car they selected. He takes off the license plate and stands, stretching just a bit as he straightens. 

They walk back to Lance’s SUV and change out the plate and registration sticker. Red opens the back and throws the original plate in the trunk, much to Lance’s surprise.

“Aren’t you going to just switch the two?”

“The plates?” Red’s got that ‘what a dumbass’ look on his face again, but Lance powers ahead anyway. 

“Yeah. Like put our plate on the other car so they don’t notice it’s missing.”

“‘Cept they’d immediately know who took the plate and which one we have, if we did that,” Red snorts, eyebrows raised, then gets in the driver's side without waiting to see if Lance is going to follow. 

He does follow, maybe because he’s starting to realize that he’s way out of his depth here. He never would have thought of changing the plates, and while he’d helped, he never could have done this on his own. He got lucky that they sent Red, despite how terrible the whole situation is. He’s alive. And if he wants to stay that way, he needs to stick with this guy. 

Admitting that just about makes him want to hurl, and huddle in the fetal position for several hours, but he just climbs into the passenger's seat and buckles himself in. 

“Where to?” there’s something different in his tone now. He’s less defiant, more… curious. Wanting to know because it’s useful to have that information rather than just to be irritating. 

“We need new papers,” Red says, grudgingly, like he notices the change and appreciates it, “Identification etc. We need money for that, and weapons, so we’re heading to one of my stashes, where we can get it. After that, it’s L.A.”

“L.A.?” Lance shifts in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. This is not his first road trip, although it is the weirdest, “Why?”

“The girl I know who can make us new Ids lives there,” Lance is definitely not imagining it. Red’s being a little more patient with him, isn’t he? Is it because Lance proved he not a complete idiot, or because he’s making a conscious effort to be less annoying? 

“Okay,” Lance says and leans his face on his hand to better see out the side window. 

“Okay?” Red echoes, more of an incredulous question than a statement.  

“Yep,” Lance nods, careful not to look at Red, careful just to stare out at the suburban homes that seem unrealistic somehow. Just a few days ago, he’d been in a house just like the ones he’d staring at, totally unaware that he was going to end up here, in a car with a murderer.

It’s not the worst thing in the world, he thinks. He could be dead. So he sits, and stays quiet, even when Red drives them out of the city and into the wide expanse of the desert. The emptiness is one of those traps, one of those mind consuming traps that he could easily find himself spiraling into, but he doesn’t want to think so he closes his eyes. Car rides always make him sleepy, so he banks on that, willing himself to just… fall asleep. To not think for a while. To shut off his brain so he doesn’t have to confront the reality of his situation. 

Somehow, he must do just that, because the next thing he knows, he’s waking up when he realizes the car’s motion has halted. Red is looking at him from the driver’s seat, a strange expression on his face as he watches Lance. He’s got his sunglasses off, tucked in to his plain black shirt again as he leans against the driver’s side door, one arm slung over the back of the seat. 

“What?” Lance asks, still kind of half asleep, resisting the urge to rub his eyes. 

Red turns his head to stare out the front windshield, then glances back for just a moment, meeting Lance’s eyes, “Just trying to decide if I should wake you up or not. Let’s go.”

“Are we here?” Lance mumbles. Red doesn’t respond, and Lance mentally smacks himself. Of course they’re here. If they weren’t, Red wouldn’t be climbing out of his seat, sliding his sunglasses back over his dark blue eyes. He walks forward and Lance realizes for the first time that he’s got a pair of cowboy boots on. Had those always been on his feet?

Lance hops out and follows him, yawning. Red’s standing behind a dry crackling bush, a few feet in front of a billboard advertising some kind of aftershave Lance has never heard of. He bends over, pulling on something and there’s a loud  _ thud  _ as something hits the ground out of Lance’s line of sight. Red stoops again and then he disappears, much to Lance’s alarm. 

He panics for a second. Did Red just… leave him? He doesn’t know why this fills him with such fear, but it’s there anyway. He’s alone. In the desert.  _ Dios.  _

And then Red’s dark head peeks around the shrub and Lance can see his wry expression, “You gonna just stand there?”

“Oh. Uh, no,” Lance starts forward, hoping he doesn’t look as awkward as he feels. His feet leave little clouds of dust as he trots forward, unsurprised to find that Red’s standing on a ladder descending into the earth, the bottom visible in the radiating light of the sun. Lance climbs down after the other man, turning to see that the space is actually a little bunker of sorts, full of metal boxes and shelves. There’s food on some of them, canned things that won’t go bad for years, and a folded up cot in one of the corners. 

“You’ve… lived out here?” Lance asks, trying to hide how appalled he feels. No running water, no electricity, no blankets, no pillows… no people.

“Yep,” Red says, short and to the point as always. Lance doesn’t get much time to dwell on how awful that must have been before he’s suddenly preoccupied with a wad of cash being shoved into his hands. Red has one of the empty backpacks that are hanging on a hook at the entrance and he’s stuffing things into it: money, boxes of bullets, and three heavy looking guns that look like they belong in a spy movie. 

He zips it and finally sees that Lance is still standing there, holding the money like it’s got the plague or something, “Are you going to put that in your pocket or…?”

The sound of his voice snaps Lance out of whatever that was. He doesn’t just want to just stuff a roll of twenties into his coat pocket, so he pulls out his wallet. Red makes a sound of disbelief, which has Lance prickling, until he looks up and realizes the noise wasn’t directed at him, but is more of a self-deprecating kind of sound. It’s… refreshing, to not be the one that’s fucked up. 

“You gotta throw those away, your ID and cards and stuff,” Red motions to his wallet, “Just leave it all here, no one will find them.”

“But how will they identify my body?” Lance says, because it’s in his nature to joke when things get entirely too serious for his liking. And this is one of those times. Throwing away his ID makes sense, he doesn’t need it and it’ll just get him killed. But this is the last thing he has connecting him to the marshalls, and through them, his old life. He has the car, he supposes, but he knows it's only a matter of time until they ditch that as well. This is different. This is a driver’s license with his picture on it and his first name. 

Red’s expression darkens. He’s silent as he adjusts the straps on the pack and then sighs impatiently. Lance hasn’t had much luck trying to interpret Red’s expressions thus far and doesn’t even bother this time, instead tossing the wallet and its contents into a far corner. The money is slipped into his jeans pocket, leaving a sizable lump that he had been trying to avoid.  He ignores the pang in his chest, the panic crawling up his throat and follows Red up the ladder back to the car. 

Their doors slam almost in the same instant. It’s quiet until Red starts up the car, and only then, after the rumble of the engine fills the air, does Lance work up the courage to ask, “Why did you give me the money?”

“Well it’s not all of it,” Red doesn’t look at him, his long fingers deftly directing the wheel as they reverse back onto the road. Lance doesn’t say anything, just waits and this time, Red continues to talk, “You said you didn’t have any cash.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll take it and run off with it?” Lance blurts without thinking, because yes, he has a death wish. 

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” Red grunts, sounding unconcerned, but there’s tension in every muscle along his shoulders, his arms, “So, no. I’m not.”

He’s lying, Lance realizes. That look on his face, those scrunched up eyebrows, the shifting gaze, the way he bites his lip.  _ He’s lying.  _ How in the hell Red had gotten this far in the assassination business being this  _ bad  _ of a liar is astonishing to Lance. 

_ Maybe he’s better when he’s on a job,  _ Lance thinks because there’s no way. He’s been with the guy for what, six hours, and already knows how to read him?

It’s remarkable how easy to identify his tells are, but much less so is the fact that Red doesn’t trust him. Lance certainly doesn’t trust Red. 

Thing is,  _ he gave Lance the money anyway.  _

And that’s the most surprising thing of all. 

* * *

Come follow me on tumblr! [sunandshadowboth.tumblr.com](sunandshadowboth.tumblr.com)

 


	7. After

Lance falls asleep in the front seat again. 

He doesn’t look comfortable, that’s for sure; he’s frowning, his hands are clenched into fists at his side, and he’s still tense, somehow, but he’s asleep. Red knows that it isn’t necessarily trust that has him unconscious, rather, it’s exhaustion, but he can’t help but feel like maybe he’s finally getting through to the guy. 

He doesn’t want to scare McClain off, quite the opposite, actually, but he isn’t sure  _ how  _ to go about doing that. Lance is skittish and easily offended and frankly, knows nothing about how to stay alive in a “run for your life” situation. He has to keep reminding himself that this isn’t routine for Lance, that he hasn’t had to train for this or learn by trial and error. He isn’t the one who’s been earning money from highly illegal activities the past ten years. 

Red takes a deep breath. This is harder than he thought it would be. He hasn’t travelled with someone in… well what was it, three years since he had his last join up job? And that had ended so spectacularly that he’d vowed to never, ever, put himself at risk like that again. Too many close calls working with unpredictable variables. Sure, he liked some of the hitmen he worked with, but it wasn’t like he saw them often- or at all. Most of the ones who had been in the business as long as he had were either too smart to show their faces or too dangerous to care either way. 

So being with Lance, in this car, alone, just the two of them? It’s basically his worst nightmare. 

No. That’s too much. An exaggeration. It’s just nerve wracking is all, thinking about the impact every statement could have, what his body language might be projecting. He has to appear non threatening and after years of doing just the opposite, it takes a lot of effort. 

Not to mention that if he doesn’t succeed, he loses the best shot he has at finding out where Shiro is. The people who hired Red to take out Dr. McClain know where he’s been taken. If he kills Lance, he loses his connection to them, and he’s not ready to give up on the idea of finding a way to use them for his own gains. Not that that’s the only reason he hasn’t killed Lance yet. There’s other reasons. 

Like...morals. For example. 

But he doesn’t have time to think about that right now. Right now, he needs to figure out how, exactly, he’s going to keep the both of them alive. There’s people gunning for Lance, there’s people gunning for him. They may or may not be the same groups. Not to mention that the U.S. Marshalls are probably having a mental breakdown over the disappearance of their prime witness. 

There’s simultaneously too many pieces and yet not enough information. Why would someone want  _ him  _ to kill Lance? There are plenty of other hitmen who would gladly take the job and have no qualms about it. So why him? Obviously the Galra want Lance gone, but there’s no way they would rely upon Red to carry out the deed. He’s too much of an unknown, despite the stellar reputation he’s built for himself. 

God, it just doesn’t make  _ sense.  _

He slams his fist against the steering wheel in frustration, and immediately regrets it because Lance startles away, blinking blearily in Red’s direction. His blue eyes become alert immediately upon making contact with Red’s face, and Red can almost see the events of the last day trickling through Lance’s memory.

“What? What is it?” McClain croaks, and Red really wishes he’d just go back to sleep, “Are we there?”

“Not quite, another twenty minutes yet.”

“Oh.”

And then he’s quiet. It’s odd. It’s nearly as bad as the constant chattering but since Red isn’t really sure how to answer any of Lance’s questions, he’ll take the silence. 

They’re in the city now, have been for a while. Red misses the wide open spaces of the desert. No homeless people who throw empty beer cans at you while you drive past, no broken down burned out buildings, no strip clubs with half-naked women out front. Lance is wide eyed as they drive past a brightly lit whorehouse and the obvious crack deal taking place on the sidewalk. If McClain has ever been to L.A. before, it certainly hasn’t been this part of town. 

Red pulls the SUV into the massive parking lot of Nyma’s club. All the lights are on and the music coming from the red brick building is loud enough to shake the car even at the back of the lot. Lance shoots him a look of disbelief, “We’re going here?”

“Not like we’re here to dance,” Red grumbles, “My contact owns this place. Come on.”

“Your contact? Shit, this really is like a spy movie. Do we have code names or something?”

He’s about to say something like “Yeah, yours can be ‘dumbass’” but then he realizes that it’s not actually a bad idea. Not like he can call Lance ‘Dr. McClain’ in front of this crowd. The hit will be out on both of them by now, there’s no way the Galra hadn’t noticed McClain’s absence. 

“Sure. Whatcha want yours to be?” he asks and is rewarded by a look of astonishment from Lance. Then his mouth thins into a frown and he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No, McClain, it’d be better if people don’t know your real name.”

Lance relaxes a bit. A grin suddenly brightens his face and Red takes a deep breath because  _ Oh no,  _ his ocean irises have a glint of mischief and he has dimples-

“Call me Blue.”

The moment’s gone. “What?”

“Blue! If you’re Red, I wanna be Blue.”

“No.”

“Oh come on, why not?” 

“Just… because. You’ll be Jack,” Red says decisively and turns his back on Lance, “We’re trying  _ not  _ to draw attention to ourselves.”

Lance mutters something under his breath in Spanish, but Red ignores him, weaving through the uncoordinated maze of parked cars. McClain follows, thankfully, but with an exaggerated reluctance that sets Red’s teeth on edge. Gravel crunches under his feet as he makes it to the back side of the building - it’s dimly lit compared to the neon show going on in front. 

He knocks on the steel door and a guy a few inches taller than Red answers. He’s got black hair so dark it’s almost blue. It falls across his face in a way that should appear artful, but instead makes him look greasy since he’s lacking his usual hat. His nose is too big and too hooked for his face to be handsome, but he’s got a certain aura about him, a dangerous quality that seemed to keep him well stocked with a bounty of lovers. Red isn’t sure exactly how that works, but it’s never been effective for him. It’s almost enough to make him jealous of the guy. 

“Rolo,” Red nods, and the man glances down at him, his thin lips curving downward.

“Red,” Rolo responds in kind, his dark eyes darting between Lance and Red, “Who’s the newbie?”

“None of your concern,” Red says lightly, just a hint of threat in his tone, but not enough to scare Rolo off, “Call him Jack.”

“Need papers?” 

“Why else would I be here?”

“Thought you might’ve missed my company,” Rolo smiles. His teeth are coffee stained, but straight and he’s got all of them, a rarity around these parts. Anyone who dared open a dentist's office in this block of town would have no shortage of work. 

“Yeah don’t flatter yourself. I’m here for Nyma,” Red steps forward and Rolo gets the hint. He’s not here to play, he’s here for business, to get their supplies and leave as quickly as possible. 

“Alright alright, she’s in back,” Rolo motions them forward with a gloved hand and the two of them follow him to a dark room full of brightly lit computer monitors. There’s a woman there with two blond pigtails that cascade down to her back. Her deep caramel colored skin looks washed out and pale in the strange glow, but her eyes are sharp as she meets his gaze across the room. 

“Red! Hey, what can I do for you?” her voice is high pitched and musical. Red glances behind him at Lance to see that he looks more than a little intrigued by Nyma’s low cut robe and big brown eyes. 

Sheesh. Men. 

“Id’s and accounts for myself and Jack here,” Red hooks his thumb over his shoulder at Lance, who still hasn’t said a word, thank god.

“You know the drill,” Nyma holds out her hand and Red places a thick stack of bills into her outstretched palm. She pats her massive monitor. “Beezer and I will take care of it, don’t you worry. We’ll get your pictures and then the two of you can go sit in the lounge while we work.”

Ten minutes later, Red is making his way through the crowd toward the bar. Lance trails behind him, looking uncertain but not totally out of place, which is good. The slightly disheveled look from sleeping in the car for the past day helps. They sit on two worn barstools, the fake leather creaking and cracking as they shift to a comfortable position. The music’s too loud for Red’s taste, but the others around them seem to be enjoying the thrumming beat just fine.  

“Shit, is it only nine?” Lance yawns, covering his mouth with one hand, “I’m beat.”

He pauses for a second, and then glances at Red out of the corner of his eye, “You haven’t slept at all have you?”

Lance already knows what he’s going to say. He slept for a few hours before showing up at Lance’s house yesterday, that’s all that matters. He had to drive through the night if they wanted to get to his stash and make it back to L.A. in time before word had spread too far. And besides, he’s doesn’t really need sleep. Not like a normal person does. 

Instead of answering, he motions to the bartender, “Whiskey on the rocks.” 

He expects McClain to say something along the lines of ‘alcohol will kill you, you know’ but instead he just chimes in with  “Gin and tonic please.”

Hmm. 

He nonchalantly scans the crowd. There’s quite a few people in here, which isn’t surprising- Nyma’s club tends to be popular. Most of them are drunk already, but there’s a few who are much too sober to be normal patrons. He thinks maybe, that they might be in the clear, that there might not be anyone here who’s involved enough with the circuit to have gotten the news yet but then his eyes land on Lubos and his crew and his heart sinks into his stomach. 

“Keep your head down,” he mutters to Lance, who of course, raises his head from his glass to look around, “Don’t say a word.”

“Wha-” Lance begins, because he is incapable of obeying a simple order when he’s cut off by Lubos’ greeting. 

“Red!” he exclaims in his booming voice, “Hey, long time no see.”

He and Lubos had worked a couple jobs together, back when Red still did that kind of thing. They were a good team, and Lubos was the kind of guy who Red could see himself being friends with under different circumstances. But they were hired killers and people like them didn’t have friends. 

“Lubos,” Red raises his drink in the man’s direction, but he doesn’t seem to take the hint. 

“I heard you got involved in some nasty business with the Galra,” he continues, although his voice is much quieter this time, “They asked me if I wanted a shot at your hide.”

_ Shit, shit shit shit- _

“Of course I told them no. I told them ‘you know I follow the code’. Man of honor, I am,” Lubos says with a wink and that’s when Red resigns himself to the inevitable. 

“Much appreciated,” Red raises his glass again, this time in salute. Lance, finally seeming to have picked up on the fact that this is not just a normal interaction, keeps his head turned away, his face obscured by the shadows collected behind the bar. 

“Anything for an old partner,” Lubos drawls and then his attention shifts to something over Red’s shoulder, “Looks like Rolo’s trying to get your attention. I’ll leave you two to it.”

Final nail in the coffin.

Lubos is immediately swallowed by the crowd. Doesn’t matter to Red, they’ll see each other soon. Rolo is standing by the exit door, waving a briefcase but all of Red’s alarm bells are ringing now and he doesn’t know if he should chance it. 

If it were just him, he’d storm back their and take his shit, but he’s got to think about Lance now and he doesn’t want to put the man in that kind of situation. Except, he slowly realizes, he doesn’t really have a choice. They need those papers and that money, and they need to leave. They could try to go out the front, but that’ll attract more attention and that’s the last thing he needs. 

He steels himself. 

This is fine. He can keep himself safe and Lance at the same time. He’s done shit like this before. 

He stands and taps Lance on the shoulder. The other man startles, staring first at his arm and then at Red before comprehension dawns. He looks relieved upon seeing Rolo. If only. 

“We’re going out back,” he murmurs into Lance’s ear as they walk, “And I want you to hide behind one of the parked cars first opportunity you get.”

“What?” Lance whispers back, looking confused, “Why?”

“Just fucking do it,” Red growls and Lance’s face morphs into a suitably cowed expression. It’s funny, but Red feels like if he’d said that yesterday, Lance would have bitten his head off. Now the man just… goes with the flow. It’s nice, but something swirls in Red’s gut, something unpleasant and bitter.  

He strolls up to Rolo, one hand in his pocket, the other grasping for the large briefcase, “Thanks man.”

“Anytime,” Rolo pats him on the back as he passes, “Nyma says have a safe trip, wherever you’re going.”

Is that a threat? Red can’t tell anymore. Everything is starting to take on that sharp, hyper focused quality that it does when shit is about to hit the fan. He puts his hand on the doorknob and pulls it open, already braced for impact. 

The knife grazes his arm as he dodges it, careful to take just enough of the hit that Lance won’t accidentally be injured. McClain, much to Red’s surprise, ducks around him and Lubos both, racing toward the dumpster that more than a few drunks spend their nights in. He slides behind it like a baseball player, out of sight within two heart beats. 

Lubos turns to follow but Red slaps the knife out of his hand, aiming a well placed kick to the back of his knee. The man goes down with a howl, rage twisting up his features as he straightens and takes a swing at Red’s chest, then his stomach. Red easily moves around his reach, dancing just beyond the area where Lubos fists can connect. 

He doesn’t want to hurt the man. He really doesn't. 

But then, when he’s too busy trying to see if Lance is still staying out of things, Lubos lands a solid hit right to the gash on his bicep. And Red sees… well, red. 

The world narrows. He isn’t breathing hard, he’s too well practiced for that, but Lubos looks fatigued already, sweat dripping into his beady eyes. He considers just exhausting the man, but when Lubos’ gaze darts over Red’s shoulder to Lance’s hiding place, Red has had just about enough. Lubos is good, but Red? He’s on a whole other level all together. No hubris about it, just fact.

He smashes his fist into Lubos nose, and the man crumples with a howl. He’s on his feet in seconds, blood splattering his lips, his cheeks. Red answers with a scissor kick to the ribs, his leg wrapping around Lubos’ torso with an iron grip. The back of his opponent’s head smashes against the ground and Red slams the heels of his foot into Lubos’ diaphragm, leaving the man wheezing and defenseless. It leaves Red in an awkward position for a second, but he rolls on the pavement with a grip on Lubo’s arm. He uses it to wrench the man upright and then lets go in favor of a grip around his neck. 

There’s a split second, where he has a choice. He can let Lubos live, or he and Lance can have more time to escape. He numbly hears Lubos’ blubbery cries, hears him croak, “please”. 

Red makes his choice. It’s easy, really. 

He twists and there’s the loud crack of a vertebrae snapping. Lubos’ fear ends abruptly with a choked sound that Red knows he’s never going to be able to forget. 

The body hits the ground with a thud. He looks down at it, detached and unfeeling, regaining control of his breathing.  He doesn’t care that Lubos is dead, doesn’t care that he knew this person, this person he’d just killed. 

When his vision stops tunneling, when he can smell things again and taste something like dust on the tip of his tongue, when he can hear again, he realizes that it’s not  _ his  _ breathing that’s so ragged and unsteady. When he looks up at something other than his victim, he sees Lance’s shocked face peering out at him, pale as a ghost. 

And there’s no mistaking the revulsion etched there.


	8. After

He does what Red tells him. He doesn’t understand why, or what’s going on exactly-  _ didn’t that dude just say they were safe from him? _ \- but he does it. He runs behind the dumpster like the devil himself is after him, barely registering the fact that there’s a knife arrowing toward Red’s chest.

The blade catches the light and suddenly it’s spinning across the pavement, the mental tinging as it skids on rough gravel. Lance tries to remain as hidden as possible while still managing to keep an eye on this fight because, _shit_ , he’s never seen anything like this. Sure, he’s watched MMA fights and boxing a few times, but it never interested him. Besides, this is _nothing_ like that.

Red moves like droplets of water down a car’s windshield, taking the path of least resistance. He hardly shifts at all. Lance doesn’t notice Red’s kick at his enemy’s knee until the man is on the ground, springing back to life almost instantly, favoring his left side. Red’s breathing steadily, his lips pursed as he steps out of the man’s way too casually to be real.

Lance can see in the dim lighting of the parking lot that it’s Lubos Red is fighting. What happened to the ‘hitmen code of honor’?

The metal pressed against his palm is cold and damp, but he leans against it anyway. His shirt is going to be covered in rust and grime and probably bits of gravel but that’s the farthest thing from his mind as he watches Red take a hard hit to the arm, right where his shirt’s ripped. Lubos’ hand comes away dripping crimson and Lance realizes for the first time that Red’s bleeding.

He goes cold.

If Red dies, he’s alone out here, outside a bar with full of seedy characters who probably have been hired to kill him, in a part of town that walking alone at night is an invitation for a knife in the back. Is he in gang territory? What if he’s wearing the wrong colors? _Dios por favor, porque es este mi vida?_

Lance blinks and it’s like a switch is flipped. Red snaps from water to fire in an instant and he’s hammering out punches like they’re Christmas gifts at a rich family’s holiday party. His face is no longer the immobile mask, it’s all anger and dark eyebrows and messy hair falling across red cheeks. He swings his legs up for a ferocious kick that sends Lubos to his ass and then Red’s hoisting him up by his neck, pulling the larger man upright with a strength that Lance would not have expected from Red’s wiry frame. Lubos is muttering something but Lance can’t quite make out what.

There’s a split second of hesitation, of conflict barely visible on Red’s face before there’s a loud crack and Lubos goes limp in Red’s arms. He falls to the ground, head smacking against the pavement upon impact with enough force to break his nose.

_That’s just adding insult to injury,_ Lance thinks, almost deliriously. Lubos is dead. Lubos has to be dead. His neck is at an awkward angle against the gravel and Lance thinks he might be sick.

He has to get out of there. He has to leave, get far away from this place because his life has been nothing but terrible the past few days and he doesn’t want to deal with it anymore.

Red’s face, when Lance crawls out from behind the dumpster, solidifies this fact. It’s empty, devoid of emotion. There’s nothing there to say _this is a human. This is someone alive._

He thinks that maybe Lubos wasn’t the only one who died in the fight.

Lance stands, preparing to run, to go anywhere, but here, when Red stalks forward and grabs his arm, pulling him toward their parked car. Lance’s stomach lurches and he rips away from Red’s grip, his fingers shaking.

“Get off me,” he says in a low voice he almost doesn’t recognize.

“We have to go,” Red growls, his bangs a disaster across his forehead. His eyes are nearly covered by them, the longer strands casting shadows across his nose.

The rational part of Lance’s brain is slowly taking over and he knows he has to go with this man, knows that Red only killed Lubos to keep the both of them safe but God, the sound Lubos made, the sound his _neck_ made…

He’s seen people die before. Has done rotations in the ER. He’s seen a lot of really terrible things, but that, for some reason, the way Red just twisted his neck and ended everything has him seeing stars.

And _the noise._ Oh god. Yep, he’s going to be sick.

He let’s Red tug him along until he can’t take it anymore and then he doubles over behind a car, nearly falling to his knees in his effort to empty the contents of his stomach. He heaves for what feels like a year, but when he finally resurfaces he realizes that Red has been rubbing circles into his back, murmuring something soothing under his breath.

Lance straightens and Red pulls away like Lance has suddenly become a burning hot stove top. He shoves his gloved fingers into his pocket and refuses to meet Lance’s eyes when Lance finally turns toward him, wiping his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Is all Lance can think of to say.

Red sighs, scrubbing his forehead aggressively, “It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have done that in front of you. I thought… I thought you were hiding.”

Lance blinks as he realizes what Red’s trying to say. _I didn’t mean for you to see that. I didn’t think you would. I’m sorry you had to._

“Still,” Lance says, like the dumbass he is. He can feel tears building in the back of his throat, but he clears it, refusing to cry in front of Red.

“Are you okay enough to get back in the car?” Red asks, hesitantly, like he isn’t even sure he wants to ask it.

“Yeah,” Lance spits, wiping his mouth again, “I’m good.”

Red pulls his hand from his pocket and reaches forward. Just before his fingers make contact, his face darkens and he lets his arm fall, the limb swinging back toward his side in an awkward arc. He doesn’t look at Lance again until they’re back in the SUV and then it’s a split-second kind of thing, nothing more.

They don’t talk until they’re out of the city. Finally, Red shifts uncomfortably in his seat and says, “ _I’m_ sorry.”

Lance is almost asleep against the window, but at these words he jerks upright, “For what?”

“You shouldn’t have had to see that.”

“I’ve seen a lot worse,” he says, because he has. He doesn’t want Red to think he’s a wimp for freaking out the way he did, wants him to know that he’s a doctor, and usually a pretty good one.

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t difficult to watch something like that,” Red says in a soft voice and Lance looks over at him in surprise. He’s staring out the front of the car with that pointed gaze that says he’s noticed Lance’s stare but is refusing to meet it.

“I’m fine,” he insists although he’s not really sure if that’s true. He’s still looking at Red, at the disheveled state of his hair, of the blood on his knuckles, his ripped shirt sleeve and the dried blood caked there- “But you’re not.”

“What?” Red says and he finally hazards a glare in Lance’s direction.

“Your arm!” Lance points to the wound and Red shakes his head.

“Na, it’s just a scratch.”

“Pull over,” Lance orders and it's like his brain is finally functioning again. This, he can do. He’s a doctor, he can patch Red up, make him get some rest.

“No,” Red grumbles, staring back at the road, “I told you it’s fine.”

“As the only doctor in this vehicle, I think my assessment of your injuries is likely more accurate,” Lance blusters, “And besides, when was the last time you slept? You need rest, I need rest.”

“You can sleep in the car,” Red argues, his brows starting to pull together in an angry line.

“Showers,” he coaxes, “Real beds. We need to change clothes, get cleaned up, look presentable. Else the next place we go is going to be calling the police over two wild men who wandered into their humble abode.”

“Two… wild men?” Red’s eyebrows split apart and one raises as he darts his eyes between the road and Lance, “You want to stop at a Motel?”

“Yes,” Lance affirms, settling back in his seat, “I can look at those knuckles and your arm, and come on man… Showers.”

Red’s stiff next to him for a few minutes, his expression unchanging until finally he relaxes and blows air out of one side of his mouth. He scratches the back of his neck, winces and finally gives a curt nod, “Fine. We’ll rest for a few hours.”

They pull over at the first motel they find. It’s shitty, as expected, and Lance doesn’t bother unpacking anything other than his doctor bag and a change of clothes. He showers first, at Red’s insistence. When he steps out of the steaming bathroom, he sees Red wrapping bandages around his own fingers, carefully biting off the end of the tape with his teeth.

“Hey,” Lance protests, wrapping the towel more firmly around his hair, “I thought I told you I’d look at those.”

“I can do it myself,” Red gives him a look of confusion and slight bewilderment.

“What if something’s broken and you didn’t set it properly?” Lance rushes forward, grabbing at Red’s hands. The dark-haired man keeps just out of his reach, leaning back obnoxiously in his chair. He’s got a confident look on his scowling face as he says, “Doc, this isn’t the first fight I’ve been in. I’m not stupid enough to break my fingers. Just a couple scrapes is all.”

“Did you clean the ‘scrape’ on your arm too?” Lance makes air quotes, unable to help himself.

Red nods nonchalantly and lifts his sleeve to show the gash about as long as his index finger along his bicep. It’s not deep in the slightest and probably only bled as much as it did because of the hard hit it had taken. There’s dark bruising already surrounding the cut, but there’s not much Lance can do for it.

“Fine,” Lance grumbles, ripping off the towel on his head with a huff, “I’m going to bed. Make sure you take a shower at some point before we leave. You stink.”

He flops into one of the twin mattresses and snuggles under the blankets, pretending not to hear Red’s muttered, “Aye aye, captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dios por favor, porque es este mi vida?- God please, why is this my life?


	9. This Can't Be "After" Considering The Shit Storm We're In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance learns some things he really didn't want to know. 
> 
> Red wishes he knew more and remembers why he should always trust his instincts.

He eats his protein bar, alone, in the dark. 

Lance rolls over in his sleep and Red watches him with a detached sense of curiosity. He hasn’t slept with someone else in the room since… well since he stopped feeling like himself. Like a person. What has that been, five years now? Six? 

God, has it really been that long since he’s picked someone up in a shitty bar to bring back to his equally shitty hotel room? It feels like a lifetime. 

He’s already unclipped his guns, the normal first step of his nightly routine. He keeps one of his knives in his boot and leaves the hunting blade sheathed where it’s strapped around his waist for easy access. He sets his switchblade from his pocket on the nightstand, his two pistols settling next to it nicely in their holsters. They’re on the opposite side of Lance, and while it’s still plausible that the man could sneak around him to get them, the idea is so unlikely that Red spares it only a moment’s thought. 

Then, fully clothed, with his boots still on, he settles on top of the comforter and sleeps for a couple hours. 

He wakes when the neighbors next door leave their room. The clock says four am. He stares at it for a long moment, wondering if it’s wrong, because  _ how  _ does any normal person feel rested after three hours of sleep?

He gets up, takes a shower. Sits in the armchair by the small windows. He doesn’t think about anything, really, just does that thing where he kind of shuts his brain off and yet remains on high alert to his surroundings. Lance mumbles something in his sleep. Red ignores it. 

McClain begins to come alive again sometime around six am. While for a normal person, this would be a reasonably early hour, Red is already itching to be on the road, to be driving away from this place and the reminder of the night before. He knows he’ll never be able to escape it, not really, but maybe if he can put as much distance as possible between himself and the body, he can pretend like it never happened. Killing Lubos doesn’t bother him, not in the way that it should, at least, but the look on Lance’s face had. And now, seeing it groggy from sleep as he turns to peer at the clock, Red finds himself reminded of the horror that had been in place of that sleepy look just a few hours previous. 

He wonders what McClain is going to do now that he’s had some rest and time to think. Will he start insisting that Red take him to the U.S. Marshalls again? Try to call the police? Call him any number of names that Red will have to ignore?

Lance frowns when he sees Red in the armchair, a crinkle appearing between his eyebrows. This is not unexpected. His next words are. 

“Have you been sitting there all night?” Lance’s voice is hoarse, “Did you sleep? Do you need to sleep, even?”

Red is slightly taken aback because this is not at all what he was ready for, and is somehow so eerily similar to his own thought process when he, himself climbed out of bed two hours ago that he doesn’t know how to respond, “What?”

“I just, I don’t know, I’ve heard they train military guys to be able to go weeks without needing rest or something. I saw it on the Discovery Channel,” McClain yawns, stretching while still buried under the covers. 

“How’d you know I was military?” Red blurts, still confused, off balance. He hates that Lance can do that to him, but there’s nothing for it except to adapt. 

“It was just a guess til you confirmed it,” Lance grins, rubbing at his face and Red has the sudden urge to throw his knife between the man’s too blue eyes, “But you’ve got the discipline, organization, whatever. You bark orders like you’re used to them being obeyed without a second thought and I figured it couldn’t have been a desk job that landed you in the hitman business.”

Lance shrugs pushing off the shitty hotel comforter to reveal a bare chest and boxer shorts. He was definitely wearing more than that when he went to bed the night before, and Red’s not expecting the view of smooth tan skin, a nicely defined abdomen, and muscular thighs. It’s not what Red would have expected out of a man like McClain. He doesn't know what he’d been expecting but it wasn’t… that. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have a right to look, and so he darts his gaze up toward the ceiling as soon as he’s able to tear his eyes away. 

“What, am I offending your delicate sense of modesty?” Lance teases, but Red doesn't answer. He just crosses his arms over his chest and continues to direct his eyes elsewhere, “Alright, alright, I get it. You can’t handle my astonishing beauty. I’ll put a shirt on to save your eyes from the exquisite radiance of my magnificent skin.”

Red can hear the smile in his voice and wonders when exactly the man became comfortable enough to joke with him. Or maybe it’s the opposite? Maybe he’s afraid, repulsed, and is deflecting it with humor? He doesn’t want to think about this, doesn’t want to care, but he can’t have Lance running off, trying to escape. Maybe… maybe he’ll talk to him in the car, give him a little more info about where they’re going, what the plan is. Put his mind at ease. 

Forty minutes later, they’ve got their crappy gas station danishes and coffee and are on the road again, much to Red’s relief. McClain has been unusually quiet and Red can’t help but interpret that has a very bad sign. He hasn’t been quiet on this rollercoaster of a fuck up thus far, so why would he start now if something isn’t wrong? They ride for forty-five more minutes in nearly complete silence, only interrupted by the soft country music coming in and out of the static on the radio. 

Finally Red says, “We’re going to safe house I’ve got about a two-day drive from here. We should be able to lay low there for a few weeks until the trial.”

“Okay,” Is all Lance says and Red shoots him a look of surprise.

“Okay? That’s all you’re going to say?”

“What? First, you act like you don’t want me to talk, and now you do?” McClain sounds exasperated. It’s something Red is familiar with. When something’s bothering him, when he doesn’t know how to deal with something, he takes it out on whoever is closest to him. 

That sends a ping of guilt spiraling through him, followed swiftly by unbridled grief that takes him by surprise. 

_ “I signed the papers already Shiro. I won’t be stationed far away, I’ll be a base less than three hours from here-” _

_ “You had so many options! The air force? Really? You could have gone to college first, been an officer, a flight specialist, any number of things!” _

_ “I’ll get to be a pilot this way too. Maybe not at first, but I’ll get there eventually. They’ll test me after basic.” _

_ “Keith-” _

_ “Just shove it Shiro! You were in the air force too, or have you forgotten that? You’re leaving for college anyway, what do you care?” _

_ “... Keith-” _

He realizes that Lance is still staring at him expectantly, waiting for him to respond to his snappy comment. His brain feels sluggish, off and he’s afraid if he opens his mouth he might vomit. Shiro would know exactly what to say to this guy to get him to calm down, to make him feel better about the things that sometimes had to be done in order to live. Then again, if Shiro were here, he probably would never had had to kill Lubos in the first place. 

God, he hasn’t missed Shiro this much in… years. 

“Hello!” Lance snaps and Red blinks in his direction, “What even is your game here buddy?”

“What?” Red asks intelligently. 

“I mean, what is,” Lance gestures between them, “Your game here? You work for the Galra but are keeping me alive? Why?”

“I…” he doesn’t know how much to tell Lance. He can’t tell him about Shiro, obviously, because that could put both Lance and his brother in danger if they were ever caught but he can tell him about some of his other jobs, he supposes, “I don’t work for the Galra. Not usually anyway.”

“So why did you this time?” Lance looks surprised that his questions are actually being answered, but if this is how Red gets him to calm down and go along with his agenda, then it’s what he’ll do. 

“They forced me to.”

“How? Doesn’t seem like anyone could make you do anything you don’t want to do.” Lance raises an eyebrow and Red takes his comment as a compliment. 

“Ordinarily you’d be right,” he says with a wry smile, “But they got ahold of my handler. Said that if I didn’t do this job they’d kill him.”

That, and they still had information on Shiro. Information he was planning on getting once he figured out who was pulling the strings here. 

“Didn’t figure you’d form that close of an attachment to anyone,” Lance mutters and Red switches on his blinker to head for the exit they need. It’s loud in the silence that follows, because Lance is right, but telling him that will leave him open for further questioning. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t assume-”

“No, I guess you’re not wrong,” Red shrugs, despite the fact that he'd been avoiding this answer, “It’s a thing of reputation I guess. If I let them off my handler, it shows I can’t take care of me and my own and I become a target, along with anyone I’ve ever possibly shown an ounce of affection for.”

He hopes that’s enough information for Lance, but the man just sighs, “So they kidnapped your handler and forced you to come kill me? You’re a hitman. You kill people all the time, so  _ why _ didn’t you kill me?”

“I-” He wants to say something funny, to make a joke and deflect the question, but he finds himself saying, “It’s against my code.”

“What code?” Now McClain looks curious, his gaze sharpened on Red’s face in that way that makes him feel awkward. 

“Uh, my code. I don’t kill good people. Just the bad ones.”

“... The bad ones?” 

“Yeah.” He can’t read Lance’s voice or facial expression and it’s making him nervous, “What?”

“Who decides they’re bad?”

“What do you mean?” He asks, confused. 

“I mean, who decides that they deserve to die?” Lance’s face is starting to become red now, making

his ocean eyes stand out that much clearer. 

Red is glancing between him and the road, “I do. And you’re not a bad person. That’s why I couldn’t, why I can’t, kill you.”

“So you get to decide who to kill? Who’s bad enough to deserve your gun in their face?” Red’s starting to get the feeling that maybe Lance is upset, that he’s angry, but he can’t figure out for the life of him why. This conversation is supposed to reassure the other man that he’s safe, that Red isn’t going to just off him in his sleep because that’s not who he is. 

“Yeah? McClain, I’m doing society a favor. I’m killing people, but they’re the child rapists, the murders, the gang bangers who destroy neighborhoods. When the court systems don’t give justice, I do.” He’s doing a really bad job of explaining this, but he’s never really had to do it for someone alive before.

“You’re playing judge, jury, and executioner, huh? Just taking out everyone you deem to be unworthy? Well, that’s just great. I feel a lot safer now. Don’t worry world, we’ve got a new, darker Batman on the scene only he doesn’t wear a cape, but a cowboy hat and sensible shoes!” Lance growls, “How can you sit there and say that like it’s a good thing? You’re  _ killing  _ people. People that you have no right to decide are good or evil. And what about the others? The ones that you deem too good for you to kill? They just get murdered by others, don’t they? And you don’t do a damn thing about it, do you?”

“I  _ can’t _ do anything about that,” he snaps back. That one… hurts, surprisingly because the guy is right. He wants to tell Lance, but he doesn’t, isn’t able to make the words come out. It'll just sound like weak justification when he knows it'll never be good enough, “I’m helping people, McClain. I’m getting justice for families who wouldn’t otherwise have it and protecting neighborhoods from their crime bosses. I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

“And that’s the problem Red,” Lance crosses his arms over his chest and scoots as far away from Red as he can on the seat, “That’s the fucking problem right there.”

Red doesn’t understand. He’d intended to calm McClain down and somehow ended up with… this. Silent brooding that has both of them on edge. Neither of them speaks for the next four hours. Every time Red thinks of something to say, it just sounds lame. Like an excuse. He knows that killing people isn’t right, but he did it. He can’t go back and change it now. 

They stop for lunch and still don’t talk. Red can’t tell what Lance is thinking about, but he doesn't ask. After a while, the silence becomes a habit more than anything. There’s no hostility or anger in it anymore. There’s just… quiet, routine, expectation. 

He drives and drives. Lance falls asleep several times in the afternoon. He buys a book from the little corner store they stop at to buy supplies for sandwiches and reads that for the rest of the night, some sci-fi novel about space travel and fighting aliens. Red tries to steal glances at the cover without actually looking at Lance, but it’s basically impossible and soon he gives up. 

When night falls, Lance finally closes his book. He stares through the windshield for a long moment before he says, “How much longer before we stop?”

“Uh, I’m planning to go for most of the night,” Red responds, both hands clenched so tightly on the steering wheel that the knuckles are turning white. 

“Alright. I’m going to sleep for a bit, wake me up when we stop for gas or something, I want to grab some lotion. My skin is so dry it’s killing brain cells just to look at it,” Lance says staring at the back of his hands sadly. 

“Yeah sure,” Red says, and that’s the end of the conversation. It’s not much, but it’s progress, Red thinks. He seems less hostile, more at ease now, than he did before. It could be Red’s imagination, but it seems like though not all has been forgiven, Lance has figured out some way to live with the fact that Red has a more than bloody past. 

It’s good, that’s good, but Red has to keep reminding himself that this is all for the job, that he can’t actually care what Lance thinks because that’s dangerous territory. That’s attachments and friendships and things that he can’t and won’t have in his life. 

He drives until about one thirty in the morning. The road is somewhat familiar to him as he takes this route relatively often. He’s got two safe houses up this way from Nyma’s and there’s a gas station he’s stopped at three or four times in the past up ahead. At this time of night, it’ll be deserted, just the way he likes it. It’s out of the way, not new enough to have real security cameras and has a good selection of snacks.

Red pulls in and Lance startles awake. He blinks blearily in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the place, then yawns widely, reaching for the roof of the car with his long arms, “We gettin gas?”

“Yep,” Red says shortly.

“Alright. I’ll grab some snacks. You want anything?”

“Sure,” Red says despite the fact that he had been intending to say no, “Some Balmeran Seltzer would

be great.”

“Seltzer?” a slow smile crosses Lance’s face and Red feels self-conscious all of sudden, a feeling he hasn’t been familiar with for years. 

“Yeah? What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Just thought you’d drink something more… badass. Like Nunvil or something.”

“Nunvil will rot your balls off,” Red mutters and Lance gives a surprised sounding sputter of a laugh. 

“There’s no medical evidence of that,” he calls over his shoulder. He’s shaking his head as he enters

the gas station but Red doesn’t think it’s in a bad way. 

He uses the card he got from Nyma in L.A. to begin to pump gas. Automatically, he starts doing 360’s, checking the area to be sure that there’s nothing unusual. He’s ninety-five percent positive they weren’t followed here, but he wants to be safe all the same. 

There’s something… off about the way the gas station feels tonight. Normally, it’s a calm, lazy atmosphere, the type of place everyone is passing through and nobody ever stays. But tonight it feels like… well, kind of like the jobs he usually sets up. If he were trying to take Lance out, and he somehow knew that McClain was going to be on this road… 

He thinks that maybe he’s just being paranoid, that he’s reading too far into the creepiness of the glow of the full moon when he sees a glint of silver around the edge of the building. He leaves the gas pump in the tank and casually wanders over to it in the pretense of checking on Lance through the store window. 

There’s a silver Toyota Corolla parked behind the shop in a spot where cars aren’t supposed to be, almost entirely hidden from view unless you were really looking for it. All of Red’s alarm bells begin to ring. He pauses, reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a single cigarette. He doesn’t smoke, not really, not like he used to, but he lights it and clenches it between his teeth with a long pull. 

He holds the cig between two fingers as he meanders back to the truck, all the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He’s already labeled the two best vantage points and where the men might be stationed or attempting to attack from. The truck’s tank is nearly full, and Red pulls the nozzle from it’s intended location, letting it fall to the ground in a nonchalant motion. He kept the pump triggered, and gas begins to trickle out of it and onto the ground a good distance from the back of the car. He makes sure that the location he threw it is out of sight from the best vantage points, hoping to buy them a few more minutes. 

Lance comes out of the gas station after what feels like a lifetime, looking bewildered, “There was no clerk. I yelled and waited, but no one showed. I left some money but…”

He looks refreshed, carrying three sodas and a package of peanuts. 

“Okay,” Red answers, waiting for Lance to move closer before he says, “Get into the driver’s side of the car.”

“My turn to drive?” Lance looks confused, which is understandable since Lance hasn’t yet been given command of his own vehicle. 

“We’re not alone here. Get into the driver’s side of the car, don’t react,” Red hisses and Lance to his credit, doesn’t. 

“The clerk’s dead, aren’t they,” Lance says, handing Red some change like he’s just returning the money that Red lent him. 

“Yeah.”

“How’d they find us?” Lance frowns, his eyes terrified, but the rest of his body language portraying a relaxed, slightly rumpled twenty-something man who just wants to get back on the road.

“Don’t know, don’t care. Just be ready to drive us out of here as fast as you can,” Red says in a low voice and Lance nods, a little bit of that terror seeping into the rest of him as he hurries to the car and climbs into the driver’s seat. There’s a tracker on the car, somewhere, has to be, but it’s no use freaking Lance out even more than he already is until after they’ve gotten out of this situation. 

Red feels for the gun in his thigh holster, unclipping the strap over the back of it when two men rushed him from the bushes. It isn’t quite the maneuver he’s expecting, too bold and reckless for that, but Red just presses his cigarette between his teeth and fires one-handed, nailing one of the assailants through the forehead on his first shot. Bullets ping behind him and he pauses just long enough to yell “Lance, get down!” out of the side of his mouth before he’s aiming at the second guy, his finger on the trigger. 

Before he can squeeze off the shot, something slams him against the side of the truck. There’s an intense pressure against his shoulder, like God is reaching down and pinching the muscle of the left side of his chest, close to the joint. His arm goes limp, dead, dropping the gun with a clatter to the pavement and heat spreads across his skin. 

_ Did he just… shoot me?  _ Red wonders numbly, but there’s no pain, not for a long moment. He can’t use his left hand but his right is just as good, if not better and he reaches into one of his belt packs for the throwing knives he keeps there. It’s then, when he slides back into the rhythm of motion, that the pain hits. 

He can’t breathe, suddenly. It’s like someone stole all the oxygen from his lungs and they won’t inflate, like the bullet was a black hole and it’s caving in his ribs. There’s no sound for a second, everything slows as his heart thumps painfully in his chest, but somehow he manages to throw the knife. It doesn’t strike true, stabbing into the flesh of the guy's upper arm instead of his throat but it stalls him for just enough time. The guys foot is in the gas puddle now, close enough, just close enough, and Red takes a quick drag on his cigarette before tossing it onto the fuel. 

There’s a low  _ fwoump  _ as the gas ignites and along with it, the other hitman. He begins to scream, but Red doesn’t wait around to see if he can still aim even with his flesh melting. He staggers to the passenger's side of the truck and essentially falls in with a little help from Lance, who drags him across the seat and shuts the door behind him. He needs no prompting to peel out of the parking lot and onto the road, just in time to watch the gas station explode in a massive fireball that takes out not only the shop but the silver car behind it as well. 

His arm and shoulder feel like they’re the ones on fire, like he brought a little bit of the inferno into the car with them. His vision alternates between graying at the edges and small flashbulb like white spots that dance on the roof of the truck and he wonders if this is what it’s like to die. 

“How bad is it?” Lance’s curt voice cuts through his distraction and he turns his head with a low groan, trying to focus on McClain’s face. 

“What?”

“How bad is it? Are you bleeding out?”

With effort, he moves so that he can glance down at the wound. It’s in his upper left chest, maybe two or three inches below his collarbone. It’s bleeding steadily, but not gushing all over the place like he would expect a fatal wound to do, “Dunno. Don’t think so.”

“Good. Any dizziness or nausea?” Lance is speaking in that emergency room doctor voice, the kind that makes you pay attention and listen. The voice that says, if you don’t listen to me and answer my questions, something bad might happen to you, something like death. 

Red doesn’t want to die. Not really. 

“Dizzy,” he gasps out, biting back another groan as Lance takes a corner and he slides across the seat. Fuck he can’t do this. He always thought he’d be better with handling a bullet wound, but apparently not. 

He’s losing consciousness rapidly. He has to stay awake, they have to get the tracker off the car, have to get somewhere safe-

Lance is asking him another question and he tries to focus, but the crimson dribbling down the front of his shirt is making him uncomfortable and he really, really wants to be out of these clothes. Lance looks between him and the road, but he can’t do much other than reach over and clamp his hand down on the wound, trying to staunch some of the blood flow, probably. It sends another wave of agony through him and he bites his lip so hard he tastes iron. 

“Red, I asked if you can breathe?”

He takes a deep breath and presses his head back against the seat at the same time, trying to regain control of himself, “Mostly, yeah.”

“Okay, it didn’t hit the lung…” Lance seems to be talking to himself more than Red, “I really need to look at that. Is there somewhere we can stop?”

“Off the freeway,” Red says through clenched teeth, clutching his left arm against his torso as tightly as he can, “Drive ten miles, maybe more. We gotta get the tracker off. We’ll find a motel after that.”

“Tracker?” Lance asks, sounding alarmed, but Red can’t focus on him because they drive over a bump and his vision goes white. 

“ _ Fucking hell!” _ he spits, his body alive with too much sensation, too much screaming pain. 

“Close your eyes. Breath at a steady pace, but quickly,” Lance orders, practically holding him down as he tries to pull away, tries to get rid of the pressure that’s just making things worse, “Stop moving! Damn, haven’t you ever been shot before?”

“No!” Red snarls through his teeth. 

“Oh. I just thought… with your job an all-”

“I’m good at my job! Usually! Apparently having you around just brings me the worst fucking luck!”

Lance seems suitably cowed by this but then says, “Hey, lean forward for me, okay?”

Red wants to say that he can’t, that things are just too heavy and he isn’t exactly sure where his body is anymore, but he manages to wriggle to a somewhat upright position and press his good arm up against the dash as support. Lance slides his fingers across the back of Red’s shoulder, sending little sparks of pain up his neck into the back of his skull. 

“There’s no exit wound. Means bullets still in there, I’ve gotta get it out.”

“I know what ‘no exit wound’ means,” Red snaps and then falls back against the seat with a thump and a barely concealed grunt of distress at the motion, “Pull over. We get the tracker and you can do your doctor shit after.”

Red closes his eyes and listens to Lance pull the vehicle off to the side, killing the lights in one fluid motion, “Where would it be?”

“Check the trunk lid. If it’s not there, then the back wheel wells or under the hood.”

Lance’s door opens and then shuts. There’s the sound of crunching gravel, then the trunk opening. It shuts a moment later and Lance returns, this time to the passenger's side door, “Is this what you’re looking for?” 

Red slits his eyes open to see that Lance is holding a small black device with a green blinking light on it. “Fucking Feds.”

“What?”

“The Feds always put their trackers on in the same spot, probably put there before they gave you the car. They must have activated it when they realized you were gone,” Red explains but speaking takes a lot of effort and he’s not sure his words are entirely audible, “Those guys, the Galra probably, hacked it or something and that’s how they found us.”

“But they got there before us,” Lance says, bewildered, “How?”

“I’m too fucking predictable,” Red grumbles, furious with himself, “Someone’s been following me for a while, and when they saw us on that road, they probably knew I would stop there.”

“Someone’s been following you?” Lance asks, but Red can barely keep his eyes open long enough to glance up toward his former target’s face and slur, “Throw the tracker on the ground and stomp on it.” 

Things are taking on that unreal quality, that too loud and too bright and too much type of feeling that you get when you start to fall asleep. Lance seems to notice this because he says, “You’re not off the hook for my questions, but we really need to get back on the road don’t we?”

“Yes,” Red nods in case he’s no longer comprehensible and Lance sighs, coming back around to the driver’s side door again. He starts the car and begins to drive, his gaze moving between the road and Red with alarming frequency. 

He can feel himself drifting. There’s a stiff wind on his face and it reminds him of his home in the desert, the place he hasn’t thought about for years and years and he knows it’s just the car’s A/C but it’s so vivid. He pulls himself back to the present, to the smell of Lance’s strawberry scented shampoo and the hiss of a pop bottle being opened and the brights on the truck illuminating the road ahead but its entirely too difficult. 

“Can’t… sleep,” he hears himself mumble and Lance chuckles under his breath. 

“Na, that’s for concussions. You’re not going to bleed out, sleep if you want.”

He wants to say that he’s not worried about anything medical, that he’s worried about Lance stabbing him with one of his own knives or turning Red in to the police station or doing any number of things that would be disastrous. If he sleeps, this is all over and Lance can do with him what he will. 

“I’ll… I’ll make sure you’re alright. Just rest,” Lance says hesitantly and it surprises Red so much that he almost jerks upright before he remembers the bullet wound. 

_ “Hey kid, it’s okay. You can sleep here and no one will bother you. I promise. I’ll stay right here by the door and I’ll watch over you, alright?” _

He wants to protest. Wants to insist to his subconscious that Lance isn’t Shiro, that they’re not the same, not the same at all, but his brain is tired and his body is exhausted and neither of them really seem to care what he wants. 

“Okay,” he says almost without realizing it before the world is replaced by a painless gray. 


	10. Back At It Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luckily, Lance is a doctor. Not The Doctor, but close enough, in his opinion.

Red passes out, from pain or blood loss. He isn’t really sure where they’re going anymore and isn’t really sure Red knows the answer to that question either, but he continues to drive, keeping an eye out for any seedy motels they can crash in. He thinks he knows of somewhere they might be able to go, but it’s not like he can ask Red for permission, so he just stays off the freeway until it feels safe. 

He thinks about a lot of things while he drives. About the fact that Red has killed a lot of people and that he’s a pretty awful person if you got to thinking about it. Also about the fact that Red saved his life multiple times, including taking a bullet for him, and while Lance might not know what’s going on, he does know that he kind of owes this guy at least enough to get him healthy again. And anyway, he’s a doctor. Even if this guy was the worst psycho murderer that ever existed, Lance’s own code, as a medical professional, mandates him to stay and try to help this guy. Kind of. Whatever, it’s enough of a rationalization for Lance to keep booking it down the freeway, so he forces himself to clear his mind instead of thinking in circles. 

Eventually, he pulls into a motel that is suitably far away from the scene of the explosion and parks the car in front of room 14, as far away from the office as he could get. Red is still unconscious, so he gets out of the car and checks to make sure he got most of the blood off his fingers with the wet wipes they had in the glove compartment.

He makes it up to the front desk. The woman there is wearing blue themed makeup, and it should look fun, but combined with the too bright florescent lighting, she just looks washed out, “I parked in front of room 14, is it open?”

“Yeah,” she says and reaches down to pull out the key from a drawer, “50 for the night.”

It’s nearing three in the morning and he knows the room isn’t worth anything close to that, but he doesn’t argue. He hands over the required bills and hurries back to the car. He enters the room first, more stalling than anything, but then finally works up his courage and begins laying out towels on the bed. He surveys his work, his fingertips drumming a nervous staccato on his leg as he anticipates how he’s going to manage to wake Red and get him into the room.

Ultimately, he settles on opening the passenger’s side door. Red is slumped backward against the seat, his arms folded in his lap. His legs are tangled together on the floor mat and his head tilts back and to the side slightly, leaving the long column of his throat exposed. His shirt is ruined, soaked in blood and torn where the bullet ripped through. Lance hesitates for a moment then gently shakes Red’s uninjured shoulder, hoping that he won’t have to do much more to get his companion up and moving.

Red jerks awake, his dark gray blue eyes opening with so much force that Lance is surprised they don’t make an audible sound. He groans, one hand moving as if to grip his shoulder before flopping back to his side. Red cants forward, blearily shifting to take as much pressure off his shoulder as he can.

“Hey, we’re at a motel,” Lance says softly, and Red’s eyes slowly move to meet his. He’s squinting in the streetlight, looking only about half aware of the situation around him.

 “Where?” Red croaks, and Lance lightly pulls on his arm, trying to get him out of the truck, out of public eye.

“Not really sure. We’re pretty far from the gas station though, I can promise you that. Come on, we need to get inside.”

 “’kay,” Red agrees. He moves to brush his hair away from his face, but upon catching sight of his blood-stained fingers, reaches up and grips what Lance loving refers to as the panic handle instead.

 “Need help?” Lance asks and immediately berates himself when Red turns to glare at him, already shoving himself up and out of the car with small careful movements that still make him wince.

 He thinks that’s the end of it, but when Red’s finally standing, he’s gripping the truck door with white knuckled strength and breathing very steadily through his nose. Without asking, Lance moves forward and wraps Red’s uninjured arm around his shoulders, kicking the door to the truck closed with his foot. They stumble together toward the room, Red’s feet dragging and his eyes half lidded and Lance grunting every once and a while when one of Red’s boots connects with his ankle. But then they’re inside and Lance shuts the entryway with his shoulder.

 “Lay back on the towels,” Lance instructs and Red gives him a look of disbelief.

 “Gonna ruin them,” he says, in that tone of voice that means he thinks Lance is being stupid.

 “Yeah, but the motel might miss a bedspread if we have to get rid of that. A few towels, probably not,” Lance snaps and Red, suitably cowed, does as he’s told for once. Lance is pretty sure it’s just because he’s too tired to keep standing any longer, but he’ll take whatever kind of win he can get.

 While Red gets situated, Lance heads back out to the car, snagging his doctor bag and Red’s backpack of belongings. He hopes Red has another set of clothing to change into, because his are unwearable. No amount of washing is going to get that stain out.

He walks in on Red attempting to take his shirt off on his own, his face nearly purple and his eyes screwed shut. It would almost be funny if Lance couldn’t see the pain etched in the creases on by his eyes, on his cheeks.

“Hey man, hold on!” Lance drops the bag right by the door, hurrying forward, “Look, I’ll help you, just take it easy.”

 Red sighs, his head bowed, but then he relents. He drops his arms and tries to make it easy on Lance as the other man carefully pulls the fabric away from the bullet wound, but Red can’t help but flinch every time his arm is jostled.

 “I’m sorry,” Lance finds himself murmuring, almost like a nonsensical phrase intended to provide comfort. He isn’t sure if it’s having the intended effect.

 When he finally gets Red’s shirt off, he pauses. And then stares. Then, he tries to stop, continues to do so anyway, and draws the man’s attention.

“What?” Red asks, clearly defensive and Lance clears his throat.

“Just… you said you’ve never been shot before but-“

“Haven’t been shot. Doesn’t mean I wasn’t stabbed or cut or had broken bones,” Red says and Lance thinks it’s supposed to sound angry and defensive but it comes across as scared, almost, like he thinks Lance is going to judge him or add another jagged line of scar tissue.  

There are shimmery silverish marks all over Red’s torso, big and small slashes in his skin that are just a bit off color from the rest. Lance tries to ignore them, like he ignores the ridges of Red’s abdominal muscles or the sharp definition of his biceps. 

Blood is still running sluggishly from the bullet wound in Red’s shoulder, so he forces himself to focus, wetting a washcloth from the bathroom. He doesn’t attempt to clean the area too well just yet, but clears enough of the crimson away that he can swab a section of the muscle with an alcohol wipe to disinfect it. He’s already got the needle with the numbing agent ready in the bag, one of the many steps he’d taken before waking Red to avoid prolonging the pain anymore than he has to. 

He pulls out the needle and Red flinches away from him. The blood can’t possible drain from his

face more than it has, but his expression twists into something like disgust, “What’s in that.”

“Lidocaine,” Lance explains, and understanding lights in Red’s eyes. 

He doesn’t say anything as Lance gently grips his shoulders to keep him still and injects several small doses around where the bullet entered. Lance is going to have to dig around in his flesh to get it out, and doesn’t want Red squirming underneath him while he’s making the attempt. 

He has to clear his throat and forcibly remind himself to refocus at the thought of Red beneath him. God, why is it so difficult all of a sudden? This man captured him and is half the reason he’s on this wild goose chase to begin with, he shouldn’t be admiring the way sweat drips down his pectorals and his fingers look like they could grip Lance’s hips hard enough to leave bruises. 

It takes a minute or two, but then the muscles in Red’s shoulder, arm and neck that he’d been keeping impossibly tense, relax in one by one. Red looks surprised, glancing down at the bullet wound and then at Lance, “Shit… this is…”

“Yeah it’ll be nice while it lasts,” Lance agrees, glad the stuff is kicking in so he can finally get the injury bandaged, “But it’s pretty short term, a few hours at most.”

“Damn,” Red says, but there’s no anger or heat to his word, only a kind of bewildered amusement, “You don’t have enough in that bag of yours to just… I don’t know, numb it til forever?”

Lance finds himself snorting with laughter, “No. No I don’t.”

“Damn,” Red says again, then leans against the towels, “Alright McClain, do your thing. I can’t feel my arm anymore.” 

“I’m going to have to cut the skin with a scalpel, and then take out the bullet with a pair of glorified tweezers,” Lance warns, and Red grunts impatiently, “Hey, I just don’t want you to attack me when I come at you with a sharp implement, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Red agrees, then steels himself as Lance approaches with the scalpel. He makes the necessary incisions, then snags the tweezers. 

“This is still going to hurt a little,” Lance frowns, “Try to stay still though, alright?”  
Red nods, then Lance is digging around for the bullet. It’s easier than he thought it would be, Red doesn’t so much as flinch and as soon as Lance feels the connection of metal against metal, he grips and pulls out the offending object.

“Well, sir,” Lance says, feeling almost giddy. Maybe it’s because he was helpful for once or because Red is actually speaking to him like a regular human being, “This was probably the cause of that shoulder pain you were talking about earlier.”

“You got it already?” Red starts to sit up, but Lance shoves him back down, gently of course.

“I’m a professional, what’d you expect?” Lance sniffs, but honestly he’s just as surprised as Red. 

Now Lance takes the time to clean the area around the wound, pouring some alcohol into the still bleeding area until it’s sanitized to his satisfaction. He tapes a large bandage over it, then sighs, admiring his handiwork. 

“No stitches?” Red asks and Lance shakes his head. 

“Na, it’s small enough that it’ll likely heal better on its own,” Lance, upon realizing he’s still got blood and alcohol covering his hands, pads to the bathroom. He doesn’t remember when he took off his shoes, but he’s glad he did. The carpet feels great under his toes, despite the fact that he’s sure it’s gross. 

“Mkay,” Red mutters after a pause, and Lance straightens from where he’d been hunched over the sink, scrubbing at his fingers. He sticks his head around the wall that acts as a divide between the rooms to see that Red is lying flat on the bed, his feet still hanging off the end of it. He’s got his eyes closed, and he looks like he’s basically asleep. Lance has the sudden image of the teenager Red might have been, all gangly limbs and awkwardness. He probably passed out on his bed without fully climbing into it on more than one occasion. 

Then the superimposed thought dissipates and he’s left with the real life picture of a full grown man in just his boxers and a large white bandage on his shoulder. 

Lance rolls his eyes and continues to clean his fingers until the scene in the hotel room catches up with him and  _ in his boxers?  _ When the shit did Red have time to take his pants off? 

Whatever.  _ No pienses en eso. No es su asunto. Just stop. Thinking. _

Once he’s properly clean, he heads back into the main bedroom area. He sits on the one bed in the space and gently pokes Red in the chest with a single delicate pinky, “Red? Hey, uh.”

Red stirs and blinks sleepily up at him, his dark stormy eyes latching onto Lance’s in a way that seems almost intimate.  _ Hijo de puta. _

“Mmm?” Red hums and Lance can feel the blood rushing to his face. Shit. He’s definitely blushing now. 

“Uh, could you put your clothes back on? We should probably get back on the road.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Red grumbles, but then concedes, “We need to keep moving, but  I just… am not quite sure where.”

It’s odd hearing that from the guy who seemed to always know what to do, always seemed to have a plan. 

“I’ve got an idea?” Lance says, hesitant. 

Red pauses in the middle of the action meant to yank his pants back around his hips, “Yeah?”

“My sister’s ex-husband’s brother’s cabin is probably only a few hours from here,” Lance says and a look crosses Red’s face, one that Lance is starting to identify as his ‘thinking expression’.   

“Your… sister’s ex-husband’s brother’s cabin,” Red’s brow furrows, “Won’t it be registered under the same last name as your sister?”

“Na. They got divorced like years ago, and her brother in law had a different name that his brother - they had different dads,” Lance explains, warming up to the idea, “I was there a few times when I was younger, I know where they keep the key and everything. We should be good to lay low there for a few days.”

He thinks Red is going to say  _ no _ for a long moment but then the other man slowly shakes his head in agreement while he buttons the front of his pants. He digs through his bag for a moment, surfacing with a clean shirt that he very slowly slides over his shoulders. Lance doesn’t offer to help this time, too worried what the reaction would be now that Red isn’t half delirious with pain.

They clean the hotel room in silence, getting rid of all the evidence that they were there.  They carry the trash bags out to the car, throwing them in the trunk or the back seat. Red eyes the driver’s side for a long moment before sighing, “You should probably keep driving.”

Lance wants to gloat over the tiny sliver of control he’s regaining in his life, but he doesn’t, instead offering an over casual, “Sure,” that sounds excited even to his own ears. Red stares at him for a long moment, but doesn’t say anything, just climbs into the passenger's side seat. He adjusts for a minute or two before settling into a position that Lance is sure is only vaguely comfortable before shutting the door with a muted thunk. 

Lance watches this without a word, then sighs and rummages through the backseat of the SUV until he emerges with one of the sullied towels from the hotel. He slides into the front seat, then rips the towel to suitable strips. 

“Red?” Lance asks and the black-haired man turns to look at him. 

“What.” his voice is flat and annoyed and Lance almost drops the towels and says forget it. He’s a nice person, however, unlike Red, so he doesn’t. 

“Turn toward me, I’m going to make a sling for you,” Lance instructs and surprisingly after a heartbeat or two, the other man does what he’s told. Lance straps his arm against his chest and Red nods, his dark eyes guarded. 

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. Sheesh was that so hard?” Lance shakes his head and puts the car in reverse, “Once the Lidocaine wears off, that should help keep the pain to a minimum.”

Red nods, shifting back to his former position. Lance thinks for a second that there’s a small smile on his face but he can’t quite tell once they’re beyond the streetlight and Red’s expression falls into shadow. 


	11. Hey It's Lance. Again.

Lance drives until the sun begins to peek out over the horizon. Until his eyes feel like they’re going to be permanently glued open, until he forgets, just for a second, about all the trouble he’s in.

It all comes rushing back when Red shifts on the seat next to him and he remembers why he drove through the night, why he’s in such a hurry to get to this place. Red’s got his eyes closed and Lance isn’t sure if he’s sleeping, unconscious or just too tired of the drab landscape to keep staring at it. They’re out of the desert, thankfully, but the sea of green trees that flash by outside of the SUV are honestly not any better. 

For the third time since Red fell unconscious, asleep, whatever, he tentatively holds out his arm, waving it in front of Red’s face. When the man doesn’t stir, he gently presses his wrist against the skin of Red’s forehead, praying that he doesn’t feel the warmth of a fever. 

He holds his arm there for a long moment, considering. It doesn’t feel hot but… it might be a bit higher in temperature last time he checked. He’s not sure. It’s difficult to be sure when his thermometer is in the trunk with the rest of his medical gear. He stashed it there after the first pitstop he made and some lady gave him strange looks when he opened the back door and she saw the heap of bloody towels, the black doctor bag and the man passed out against the window. 

He should have grabbed the thermometer, if he’d been thinking, he would have but-

There’s nothing he can do about it now. He doesn’t want to stop and pull over. If Red does have a fever, they won’t be able to do anything about it anyway, not at this point. He’ll give the guy the last shot of antibiotics when they get to the cottage and they’ll have to hope it’s enough. 

Finally, finally, he spots the side road he has to turn down. He takes the corner slowly, not wanting to jostle the dark-haired man who is already lying much too close for comfort across the seat. One of his pale hands has crept toward Lance’s thigh throughout the bumpy drive and everytime Lance looks at it he can feel the blood rush to his face for some stupid reason. 

After thirty more minutes scouring the sides of the road, he sees the driveway and turns into it. It’s not a long driveway, but it is relatively hidden, and if you didn’t know a house was here you’d have a hell of a time finding it. 

“Hey,” Lance says, gently touching Red’s hand before he opens the driver’s side door and slides out of it, “We’re here.”

Red’s eyes open after a long second and he blinks slowly. His dark hair has fallen across his face in severe black streaks and the confusion in his almost purple eyes is strangely endearing. 

“Where?”

“The cottage I told you about,” Lance says, his heart squeezing when the thinks maybe he missed it, maybe Red really is feverish and dying and-

“Shit, already? I wanted to stop for some soda,” Red groans and then levers himself upright, awkward without the use of one arm.

“Sorry,” Lance says in a tone of voice that makes it clear he’s not actually sorry at all, “I’ll get the stuff inside. Just go sit down.”

Red doesn’t answer him, but when Lance looks up, Red’s staring at him with something like appreciation on his face. But that can’t be, because this man is a hired killer, he’s a hardened human, he doesn’t need things like kindness and caring and affection. It’s there though, maybe. That need. 

As soon as Lance thinks he might, maybe, just maybe be seeing a little bit of what goes on in Red’s mind, the things he never tells anyone and keeps only for himself to think about in the wee hours of the morning, the moment passes. They’re just two dudes chillin’ in the driveway of his sister’s ex-husband’s brother’s cabin and that’s normal. Totally normal. This is all just so  _ fucking normal  _ that Lance suddenly can’t stand it. 

He just wants to go back to his small studio apartment and check on the kids who had recently been admitted for their chemo treatments and talk to Plaxum and talk to his  _ mom.  _

Before his throat can close, before Red can see the tears prick in his eyes, he stalks away, toward the back of the car. He’s feigning anger, pretending like he’s pissed about this whole situation because how else can he explain why his fingers are shaking and his shoulder are stiff and he has to take a long moment to lean against the back of the SUV and just… sigh?

When Lance brings in the first batch of supplies, Red is no longer in the front seat of the car. Instead, he’s inside, slumped over on the couch, his eyes closed again. Lance thinks he might have fallen back asleep but then Red stirs, gesturing for Lance to throw Red’s black bag onto the couch with him. 

“How’s your shoulder?” Lance asks. He’s calm again. He stared at his reflection in the rear window of the truck until he memorized the way the dirt streaks made his eyebrows stand out and then he could breathe again. He didn’t know why it helped, only that it did. Centered him, somehow. Reminded him that no matter how different and out of control he felt, he was still the same old Lance. 

“Fine,” Red says, but his voice is thin, reedy. There’s tension in his neck and stomach again, making the lines of his abdomen and chest stand out against the black fabric of his shirt. 

“The pain medication wearing off?” Lance guesses as he lumbers into the kitchen, throwing the sack of bloodied towels into the large trash can there. 

There’s a long pause, in which Lance makes his way back to the living room to find Red staring intently at the floor. Finally, his face twists and he says, “Yes.”

“I’ll grab some more out of my bag on the way back in,” Lance answers, careful to keep his tone entirely neutral. There’s something about Red that automatically puts Lance into his ‘this is going to be a difficult patient’ mode. 

“Okay,” Red agrees, and Lance stomps back down the front stairs, his boots loud in the hushed stillness of the forest around them. 

Once Lance has the vehicle unloaded, Red takes some ibuprofen and has determined the place is sufficient for them to stay in-  _ Are there locks on the doors? On the windows? Is there more than one exit? How close are your neighbors?-  _ Lance digs through the cupboard to find that his brother in law’s brother had stocked the place pretty well before he left. True, it’s mostly just cans of soup and the fridge is mostly empty, but Lance’s stomach is growling so loudly he’s sure that were there any bears in hearing distance they would have immediately claimed him as one of their kin.  

He puts the chicken noodle soup on the stove and paces the kitchen, thinking of the supplies they’d probably have to go into town for soon. Fresh fruit and vegetables, that was for sure, more bandages, probably, toiletries, maybe a swimsuit even, if Red would let Lance out of his sight long enough for him to swim in the nearby lake.

The soup comes to a boil and Lance pours it into two different bowls, hoping that it’ll be enough for both of them. Neither of them has eaten all day and Lance doesn’t wait for Red to appear before taking his first slurping sip. 

“Oi, Red, there’s food here,” Lance calls. It takes a second, but then Red shuffles into view. He was clearly asleep again, if the lines on his face from the couch cushion are any indication. He’s still wearing the sling made of a towel and Lance adds a _real_ sling to his list of things to buy.

“We should change your bandages after dinner,” Lance says conversationally. Red just grunts in response and sits down heavily in the chair opposite Lance. 

It isn’t until Lance is nearly finished with his own soup and crackers that he realizes Red has hardly touched his own food, “Chicken stew not good enough for you?”

“What?” Red’s head shoots up and he blinks, “No it’s fine.”

“Then why aren’t you eating it?” Lance points with his spoon, “It’s not any better cold, I can  promise you that.” 

“The soup is fine,” Red grumbles, but he still doesn’t eat, “‘M just not hungry.”

Lance’s eyebrows shoot toward the ceiling, “Dude, you haven’t eaten all day.”

Red shrugs and then looks as if he immediately regrets the motion, “Not hungry.”

_ Fucking shit,  _ Lance thinks because well, that’s the only way he can really summarize how he feels in that moment. 

“You’re-” Lance starts and then cuts himself off, “How do you feel right now?”

He’s standing and walking over to his doctor bag, his motions rough. Red’s staring at him with wide eyes, looking the most unguarded Lance has seen him since Lance was almost murdered. 

“Fine,” Red insists and Lance whirls on him, a thermometer clutched tightly in his fingers, pointing menacingly in Red’s direction. 

“If this thermometer says otherwise, I will slice your dick off and feed it to the family of catfish that live in the pond out back,” Lance threatens lowly. He hopes he looks terrifying, hopes that he looks as if he means those words because otherwise, he isn’t really sure how to convince Red to tell him the truth. 

Red blanches, his nose crinkling, “Look, I’m alright. I’ve had worse.”

“How. Do. You. Feel?!” Lance snaps and Red scrubs a hand over his face.

“Kind of shitty, alright? Like I’m hungry, but if I eat I’m going to be sick and yeah, my shoulder  _ hurts _ , I got fucking shot, it’s not supposed to feel  _ good.”  _  Red raps his fist against the table on the word ‘hurts’ and he stares at his fingers like he wants to keep smashing them against something. Lance might have only been with this guy for a couple of days, but sometimes it seems like every emotion ends up becoming anger with him. 

“How does it hurt? Burning, pins and needles, throbbing?”

“I don’t know?” Red’s brow is furrowed and he’s bewildered, frustrated, “All of them?”

“You need to tell me this stuff,” Lance says, his voice softer, less furious and more imploring, “I  can’t help you if I don’t know. You could end up with some serious illness that I could have prevented if only I’d known about how you were feeling.”  

Red’s brow smoothes and he says gruffly, “Why would you help me?”

“Because I’m a doctor,” Lance approaches with the thermometer, sticking it beneath Red’s tongue while the man stares up at him, waiting for the rest of his answer, “That’s what I do. And because... “

He isn’t sure how to say this, if he even should say it, but he does anyway, “You saved my life. And keep saving my life, when you probably could have just left me somewhere and made things easier on yourself. I owe you.”

Something in Red’s eyes darken and Lance worries he’s said something wrong, that the argument and fighting were going to begin all over again, but then his expression clears and it's quiet again while they wait for the thermometer to beep. It does and it’s Lance’s turn to want to punch something. 

“It’s 100.2,” Lance says slowly, “Which… isn’t terrible, I guess.” 

_ But it’s not good, either. Especially since he recently took a dose of ibuprofen.  _

“Okay…” Red frowns, “Then why are you worrying about it.”

“I’m not-” Lance starts to say but then realizes that yes, yes he is worrying, “I’ll give you the last dose of antibiotics and hopefully that’ll take of it. Otherwise, I need to run into town to grab more, as well as other medical supplies.”

“What?” Red looks alarmed, “Where would you even get things like that?”

“A hospital? I dunno!” Lance picks up the bowls, throwing them in the sink with more force than is strictly necessary, “I’ll figure it out.”

“They keep that stuff locked up, McClain,” Red reminds him, oh so helpfully, “You’re not just going to be able to waltz in there and take it.”

“I know, okay, I know!” Lance snaps. Red doesn’t react, just continues to stare at him from his seat, “Head back into the living room and get wrapped in a blanket. I’m going to bring you some tea and broth and you’re going to finish both of them.”

“Or you’ll chop my dick off for fish food?” 

Lance turns to see that Red is smiling, an honest to god grin that sends warmth spiraling through Lance’s chest, “Exactly.”

Twenty minutes later, they’re bundled up on the couch together, Red because he started shivering ten minutes after Lance banished him to the living room and Lance just because he felt like it. Red is finally comfortable and dosed up with the last of the antibiotics, bandages changed. Lance feels like now is as good a time as any to start asking questions. 

“When did you get your last tetanus shot?” he asks and Red raises one eyebrow. 

“Honestly, I don’t remember.”

“Was it within the last ten years?”

“Probably not.”

“Peachy,” Lance sighs, digging his fingers into his temples, “Even if it is tetanus, I’ll still have time to treat it if I get the vaccine and antibiotics tomorrow.”

“... Good?” Red says. He doesn’t look nearly as scared by Lance’s declaration that he may have the tetanus virus as Lance thinks he should be. 

“It’ll be fine,” Lance assures the both of them, himself, mostly, “It’ll be good.”

“Sure,” Red acquiesces, taking a long drink of the tea that steams between his long-fingered hands.

“How…” Lance pauses, licks his lips, glances hesitantly at Red and then decides to continue, “How did you get into this business?”

“The drinking tea business?” Red says, feigning innocence, something he’s never done before. Normally he’d just brush Lance off, not answer, ignore the question, or at least Lance assumes that’s what he’d do. 

“The hitman business, you dolt,” Lance retorts, but there’s no fire behind his words. 

“It’s a long story,” Red says softly and Lance shrugs. 

“Doesn’t seem like there’s a lot we have to do here.”

“Lance, I-” he doesn’t finish his sentence, staring into his teacup, “No.”

“Okay, alright, you don’t have to answer,” Lance immediately backs off, not wanting to end the conversation before it even begins, “Do you know who’s following you?”

“The Galra,” Red growls immediately, and fear curdles in Lance’s stomach. 

“So they’re following both of us? Why?”

“They’re following you because you’re a witness,” Red says, stating the obvious, “Me… I’m less certain about. Probably because I didn’t kill you and that’s a slight against them.”

But there’s something else he’s not saying, “That can’t be all there is to it.”

“Yes it can be,” Red says, and his voice his hard, his expression terrifyingly blank, “Trust me,  McClain, that  _ can  _ be all there is to it.”

There’s silence for a long time. They watch T.V., some random movie that Lance can tell Red  isn’t really paying attention to. It’s after things are dark and the glow of the T.V. is starting to lull Lance into a hypnotic-like state where he doesn’t care about anything or anyone that he notices Red is slowly shucking off the blankets like he’s emerging from a cocoon. 

“What’re you doing?” Lance asks and Red mumbles something in reply, “What?”

“It’s hot,” Red enunciates clearer and Lance sighs. 

“That’s the fever, Red.”

“Don’t care. It’s hot.”

“Put the blankets back on.”

“They’re just making me sweaty!” Red protests and Lance can tell by the wrinkle in his forehead and the purse to his lips that he knows he’s being childish. 

“That's because,” Lance says, punctuating his words by firmly tucking another blanket under Reds chin, “They're  _ supposed  _ to do that.”

Red's glare somehow isn't as effective when it's given from underneath layers of fluffy blankets. Lance has the strangest urge to tweak Reds nose like he used to with his little sister when she was feeling under the weather. He then straightens and pulls away because  _ what the fuck Lance get a God damned grip.  _

“I'm going to check your temp again,” Lance begrudgingly climbs out of his own blanket pile and fumbles with his bag for a minute before finding the object he needs. He holds it up triumphantly before standing from his stooped position with a crack of his back. Ugh. He's too old for this “getting off the couch” thing. 

He meanders back over to Red, who takes the thermometer and places it between his lips on his own. Lance takes the brief respite from doctor duty he's given to flop back on the cushions, ignoring the fact that he's probably acting way too comfortable around a man he barely knows and is a hitman no less. 

The thermometer beeps and Lance lazily reaches over to grab it, snagging it from Red’s mouth. The man lets him without a word, his gaze directed tiredly forward toward the T.V. screen. Lance situates the monitor so that he can see the numbers there.

Lance’s stomach sinks into his feet. The thermometer reads 102.4.

_ Fuck. _


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The worst thing about Keith's nightmares is that they're actually his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I wrote the Shiro/Allura piece before I knew Shiro was gay! However! I am finding ways to incorporate it, and Shiro will be Pan-sexual in this fic.

He’s alone in a dark room. He knows it’s his old army bunk, somehow, despite the lack of distinguishable features. 

The door opens just enough to let a sliver of light through. He watches it dispassionately from where he sits on his bunk. Mild curiosity eventually begins to prickle as the span of light on the cracked linoleum floor becomes wider and wider until it finally reveals the tall form of someone familiar. 

Keith shrinks back when he sees who it is, because it can’t be true, “Shiro?”

He’d left Shiro behind. Left Shiro to keep his boring desk job at the police station because Keith doesn’t want that life. He wants something interesting, exciting, a life in the air force. 

“They took me,” Shiro says, and Keith freezes, “They took me, and you know why, do you?”

“What?” he croaks, and Shiro shakes his head, an angry snarl enveloping his face as he steps toward Keith. 

“They took me because of you!” He roars and Keith flinches. It’s true, it’s so true and it hurts, “If you had been home like you said you would be, none of this would have happened!”

Oh god. He knows Shiro’s right, that this is all his fault, but he feels hot, too warm and he can’t make his limbs move because they’re tangled in the sheets and then he’s surfacing with a gasp and the feeling of his open palm connecting with flesh. 

“Shit,” someone grunts, “Fuckin’. Dude, I’m just trying to help you.”

“No, don’t-” Red manages to groan and the pressure of hands on his shoulders lifts. 

“Okay, okay, I’m not touching you. Red, do you remember where you are?”

He opens his eyes. It takes a lot of effort to keep them that way but he can’t think of why that could be. There’s someone standing there, someone familiar and it takes a long time for his brain to supply a name, “Lance.”

“Yeah, yep, I’m Lance. We’re in my uncle’s cabin,” Lance says, sounding concerned, “You fell asleep while we were watching the movie. You’ve got a really high fever buddy.”

_ Buddy?  _ Everything is fuzzy and his entire body aches, but he doesn’t think he’s hallucinating the fact that he and Lance aren’t buddies, and never have been. 

“How’re you feeling?” Lance still doesn’t touch Red, but his fingers are twitching like he wants to tuck the blanket back around Red’s chin. 

“Bad,” Red croaks. His throat feels like sandpaper and his head is pounding and he’s so goddamned  _ hot.  _

“Here, drink this,” Lance hands him a glass of water, “All of it.”

Red does as he’s told, mostly because he’s actually dying of thirst all of a sudden. He can’t remember the last time he felt this awful. Maybe never. He gets about a third of the way through the glass before the feeling of the water sliding down his throat becomes too much and his stomach rolls and he nearly drops the cup in his haste to get it away from him. 

Lance is frowning, watching him with those light blue eyes. It’s like they’re staring through him, and for a solid thirty seconds, Red becomes convinced that Lance can read his mind. 

_ I’m going insane,  _ he thinks and a hysterical laugh bubbles in his chest. At the last second he manages to bite it back, clenching his hands into fists at his side with the effort. 

“I’m… I have to change your bandages,” Lance says, sounding apologetic. Sweat drips from Red’s forehead and leaves a dark stain on the front of his t-shirt. God he feels disgusting, “It’s going to hurt, but I’ve got to do it.”

Lance is right. It hurts. Spots dance in front of his vision and he thinks he must make some kind of noise of pain because Lance starts apologizing, his doctors hands working quickly and efficiently to rip off the soiled gauze and replace it with a new, clean bit of cloth. Red doesn’t make it past the point where Lance starts to tape it into place because the black spots begin to swarm and despite his best efforts to bat them away, they overtake him. 

He’s in the house. The one he used to share with Shiro. 

He wasn’t there the day that his brother was taken, but he’s heard the story from Allura so many times, scoured every crime scene photo to the point where it feels almost like he’s a witness. His subconscious certainly seems to think so, because he can’t stop having this dream. 

It’s worse this time. He doesn’t know if its because of the new leads he’s been getting or if it’s the fever, but everything is real, so real and he soon forgets that anything outside of this home exists. 

It's just him. Standing behind the couch, watching Shiro watch T.V. He looks the same as he did all those years ago, his short black hair styled with an undercut, tuffs of longer strands hanging to just above his eyebrows. He’s checking his phone, no doubt looking for the message from Keith saying that he’ll be there soon. Keith’s supposed to be there soon. They were having a weekend visit, Keith’s leave had finally been approved and he knew Shiro had had the whole Saturday planned for them. 

But Keith doesn’t show up. 

Because Keith is angry with him, with Shiro, for abandoning him. Or at least, he had thought that was what was going on. Shiro, after working the same consulting job he had for the last three years since being honorably discharged from the air force, was going to school to be a police officer. He no longer lived in the house that he and Keith had called home. The house was originally his parents, paid for in full so that Shiro could now afford to live in his fancy city apartment with his boyfriend and the best friend that he barely introduced to Keith. He could afford leave Keith behind. 

So Keith told him he was coming home. Pretended like he was going to show up and things would be all peachy again and they’d go back to being the way they had been before. Instead, Keith goes into the city with another recruit he met in the air force, and they get so incredibly wasted the entire weekend that it takes three days for him to recover enough to wonder why Shiro didn’t text to ask where he was. 

Shiro didn’t text, because Shiro was gone. 

The Galra took him. 

Keith watches as the front door swings open, silent on the well oiled hinges. Shiro doesn’t move from his place in front of the T.V., despite the fact that Keith’s screaming at him, yelling for him to “move, please, for the love of god, get up!”

Three men swarm through the darkness of the night, wearing professional gear. Night vision goggles, silenced rifles, the whole shebang. They know Shiro’s reputation. Despite the loss of his arm, he’s still more than competent enough to handle a trained killer. Keith thinks that even now, even as Red, as this alter ego he’s created for himself, Shiro might be able to best him. 

One of them has a tranquilizer gun. Keith knows exactly where the cartridge lands. He can see the little black lines outlining the place it sits in the crime scene photos. It misses, the small puff of the dart leaving the barrel all the warning Shiro needs to roll off the couch. He knocks over the coffee table, sending the vase and remotes flying. The movie pauses - one of Keith and Shiro’s favorites, the third Lord of Rings. It’s the same scene that the police find flickering on the screen when they answer the call the neighbor makes after hearing the gunshots that echo through the room following the dart. 

They’re not supposed to kill Shiro, just incapacitate him. Keith knows they’re aiming for arms and legs, nothing vital, but every shot goes into the back of the couch. Shiro’s crouched with his metal arm covering his head, the other groping for the pistol that he keeps taped to the bottom of the coffee table. He reaches it, returning fire at the three men, who quickly duck behind the wall. There’s a stalemate for a solid sixty seconds, and then one of the men nods to the other two. They all slide gas masks over their faces and then one unclips a canister from his belt, pulls and pin and sends the device rolling into the living room. 

Shiro, upon hearing this, instantly springs into action, shooting through the sliding glass door that leads to the patio. Fresh air rushes in and takes out some of the potency of the smoke, but Shiro’s still blind, still unable to see that one of the men is now circling around, coming not from the front hallway but through the kitchen. The smoke clears just enough to offer the man a clean shot and then he sends two darts into Shiro’s thigh in quick succession. Shiro yelps and pulls the small silver needles from his flesh as quickly as he can, but it doesn’t matter. It’s over. He wavers and then slides bonelessly to the floor, his eyes rolling up in the back of his head. 

And here’s where the dream changes. Normally, Keith would just watch them take Shiro, watch them tuck him into a body bag and carry him out the door, but this time the three men turn to him. They’ve never seen him before. He’s always a ghost, always unheard, no matter what he shouts. 

They face him, all three of them. Their mouths don’t move but he hears them anyway, hears them saying “This is your fault, your fault, your fault, your fault yourfaultyourfaultyourfault-”

He startles awake, shocked to find that one of the men is standing in front of him. He’s not sure how long he’s been asleep. It feels like it’s been minutes, but he has the sinking feeling that it’s been hours. How this man managed to sneak inside his room, managed to stand next to him without him even noticing is most alarming of all, however. 

He tries to sit up and the man says something garbled, something that Red can’t understand. He tries to say as much but the words stick in his throat and when he finally manages to force something past his parched lips it’s so slurred that he’s uncertain if it’s intelligible. He needs to find his knife, to get this man out of his room, his home… is he home? Does he have a home? He can’t remember. Where is he? It’s freezing, wherever this is, and Red tries to keep his teeth from chattering as he shivers under what feels like a mountain of blankets. 

The man moves closer to Red’s field of vision and he realizes, slowly, that he knows this person. Kind of. He doesn’t trust him but he doesn’t distrust him either and it hurts his brain to think, to process information. Everything’s cold and hazy and aches and his shoulder is throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He’d give anything to fall into a dreamless sleep. 

“Lance?” he manages, because that’s his name, that’s the guy’s name, and the other man smiles in

what looks like relief. 

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m sorry, I know this is confusing and I really don’t want to leave you right

now, but I’ve got to get you some antibiotics. Your fever is too high and I have to get something to bring it down. I’ll be back in a couple hours, okay? Just stay in bed and try to drink some water.”

He tries to tell Lance that he can’t go, that it isn’t safe and his plan to steal antibiotics is stupid and quite possibly the worst thought out plan he’s ever heard of, but it comes out sounding more like “Mmmm.”

Lance smoothes Red’s hair away from his forehead, the sweaty strands making it difficult for him. He shakes his head, the small furrow in his brow causing something like regret to churn in Red’s stomach. He’s making Lance upset. He’s doing that. And he shouldn’t care, because Lance isn’t his friend but he’s supposed to be making Lance feel safe, isn’t he? And he can’t do that if he’s stuck in bed while Lance goes on a solo outing to get supplies. 

“”M comin’” Red finally mumbles and something like surprise and maybe anger flashes across Lance’s face. 

“Red, I can handle myself. There’s no way in hell you’re coming with me when you’re like this.”

He’s not worried that Lance can’t take care of himself. Alright, yes, he is, he’s extremely worried but that’s not the extent of it. 

Lance must see that in his face, because Lance’s expression changes. Softens. 

“I’ll come back,” Lance says, and then gently places a cell phone on the night stand within easy reach, “If you need anything, call me and I’ll come straight back, okay?”

Red doesn’t say anything. Can’t say anything because that’s weakness and vulnerability and he’s had just about enough of that to last him the rest of the year. 

“I’ll come back,” Lance says again, almost like he’s reassuring himself just as much as he is Red and then he walks out of the room. 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr: SunandShadowBoth!


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